


(pray to) god, nobody try me

by lipgallagher



Series: (shoot the lights out, hide) till its bright out [5]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Character Typical Racism/Misogyny/Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Warning: Billy Hargrove
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-03 18:08:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14574636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipgallagher/pseuds/lipgallagher
Summary: "I'mme, notyou, soactually, I wouldneversay somethingthatdumb."And Harrington, Harrington who never sleeps, Harrington whostillhasn't learned how to take a punch, Harrington who chewed Billy's fuckingfaceopen, leans in close, rests a hand on Billy's bicep, smiles lazily as he asks, "But you kindajustdid, right?"ALTERNATIVELY: a week in the life of billy hargrove, (early) january 1985 edition.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 1 if you have been reading this series thinking This Would Be Better If Maybe Billy Could Fucking Relax For A Minute this is probably the fic for You.
> 
> 2a i meant to update this verse ages ago but ive been really ill for a bit so! havent been doing much fandom wise? terribly sorry about that.  
> 2b chapter two should Ideally be posted by the end of the week? it was meant as one chapter until editing got too overwhelming so i had to just? cut it in half, but it Is otherwise done!  
> 2c this fic was way too long when i started 'editing' it (and to be clear i really do use editing in the loosest possible sense of the term) so!!! i cut a lot out and im terribly worried about it so idk um? maybe be gentle with me, if you can. 
> 
> 3a usual warnings apply.  
> 3b many apologies, in advance, as always.

A drunk old bastard once told Billy that one drink wouldn't hurt him, and he was right. 

One drink _shouldn't_ ever hurt, but.

Just  _breathing_  is hurting Billy, tonight.

This is not the kind of night Billy should be out and about, and he fucking  _knows_  it, but Harrington said  _maybe I'll see you there_ , so.

Here Billy is, kicking it in the middle of nowhere, waiting for a boy to show up to a party, like some kind of fucking _bitch_.

He hates himself, and he hates Harrington, and he  _especially_  fucking hates  _Hawkins_. 

That hasn't been on his mind  _enough_ , lately.

It's so easy to get carried away when he spends time with Harrington. 

He doesn't feel like he's being held down, with Harrington.

He doesn't feel like he's being fucking  _punished_. 

But then, as soon as Billy's  _not_  with Harrington, reality catches up with him, and reality is an  _incredibly_  cruel bitch. 

There's a universe where Billy is with Harrington all the time.

There's a universe where life _never_ fucks Billy over, where he feels good all day, every day, every week, every month, all _year_. 

 _That_ universe could be  _this_  universe, if Billy played all his cards right.

But Billy knows himself  _really_  well, so.

He knows that that's just  _not_  going to happen. 

 

 

 

 

Billy's been waiting for Harrington to show up for a while, now. 

But he was waiting for the Harrington he _likes_ , the one he sees a lot, the one who wears sunglasses when there's no sun, who never sleeps, who fucking _survives_ off ice cream and weed and spite.

He's been waiting for  _that_ , so he almost misses it when King Steve shows up, instead, tall and confident and grinning around a cigarette, and. 

Billy watches him, for a minute. 

He's upstairs, on the landing, where no one can see him, with three bottles of beer for company, because he's not talking to anybody tonight, because he _only_  came out to see _Harrington_.

And now he  _can_  see Harrington, but he doesn't look the way Billy  _wanted_  him to look, so. 

There's four doors on the second floor of this house, but most of them are locked, so Billy locks himself into the bathroom, sits down on the counter by the sink, checks his wristwatch. 

It's almost ten.

It's too early to leave, but it's _also_ too late to find another party to hit. 

Billy drinks, and drinks, and _drinks_ , and then the bottles are all  _empty_ , so he's  _fucked_. 

That's the worst thing about drinking. 

The booze is always gone before Billy's _really_ done.

 

 

 

 

There's white wine in the kitchen, and it's _gross_ , but it's all that's fucking  _left_ , and someone's pushing up close to him, and Billy freezes, because he's been playing the same game for years, and that's how it _works_.

He can't fucking _help_ it.

But he's not at home, Dad's not here, so he doesn't need to freak out.

It's _not_ Dad, but Billy still fucking  _knows_  who it is, and he can't  _take_  King Steve, not tonight. 

Harrington who read to Billy over the phone to calm him down, Harrington who can't sleep, Harrington who mainlines ice cream all day, well.

 _That's_  different.

He's harmless. 

Billy could take  _him_.

He  _can't_  take this guy.

Harrington breathes against Billy's ear, "Hargrove, I have been looking  _everywhere_  for you." 

"Look a little  _harder_ , next time, pretty boy."

Harrington laughs, pushes and grabs and shoves until he moves one of Billy's arms, slips under it, worms his way in between Billy and the kitchen counter. "So, look.  _Hi_. Tommy wants to beat me to death." 

Billy raises an eyebrow. 

"I don't know where my bat is."

Billy raises  _both_  of his eyebrows. 

"You're the  _strongest person here_. I need you to  _protect_  me." 

Billy snorts, rolls his eyes, says, " _Okay_ , Harrington." 

Harrington smiles, big and bright and  _fucking_  overwhelming, reaches out exaggeratedly slowly to play with Billy's necklace for a few seconds, then: " _Hey_ , I got something for you. Wanna come outside and get it?" 

It's  _below zero degrees_  outside, so.

 _No_.

Billy  _doesn't_  want to do that. 

In  _what_  fucking universe would Billy  _want_  to do that?

Harrington bites his lip, tugs at Billy's pendant again, tries, "It would mean the fucking  _world_  to me, man. Like,  _this_  whole world, but then, you know. At  _least_  two more." 

Billy sighs. 

 

 

 

 

Harrington almost crawls _all the way_ inside of the trunk of his car, looking for whatever the fuck he wants to give Billy, and then he crawls back out, stumbles when he's getting his feet on the pavement, and Billy  _thinks_  about putting a hand out to steady him, but.

He doesn't do it. 

Harrington hands Billy the thing he just got out of the car, closes the trunk, instructs, " _Don't_  open it now; it's  _not_  a big deal." 

It's light, it's wrapped, it's.

It's a  _gift_.

"God _bless_ you, King Steve _—_ "

" _Don't_ ," Harrington groans. " _Seriously_. Is it gonna fit in your pocket?" 

Billy has to move his Marlboros _and_ his keys _and_ his wallet into the pockets of his jeans before he can make the thing fit into the inside pocket of his jacket, but Harrington fucking  _beams_  when he does, so.

It's worth the extra minute of Billy's time, the inconvenience of having to reach further for things. 

It's  _worth_   _it_.

It's dark outside, but there's enough light drifting out from the party for Billy to be able to get a good look at the shadow of a bruise that's on Harrington's face.

That little present he got from Byers. 

Billy still doesn't really know  _why_ , but he feels like he could've fucking  _killed_  Byers, just for that alone.

He thought that he got Harrington out of his system after that second night at his house, pinning him down, licking into his mouth, but he  _didn't_. 

He can see that now. 

All Billy did was make it worse. 

He just wants it  _more_.

He wants  _Harrington_ more. 

Harrington says, suddenly, "You're running out of time, Hargrove." 

" _What_?" 

"Whoever you kiss on New Year's? That's who you're gonna be with  _all_   _year long_ ," and a smirk takes over Harrington's face, like this stupid motherfucker thinks he knows something Billy doesn't.

He looks like he's got secrets in his mouth. 

They can be Billy's secrets, too, though.

All he has to do is just  _take_  them.

_Jesus_.

He  _can't_  keep thinking shit like this.

What the fuck is  _happening_  to him?

Somehow, he  _doesn't_  know how, but fucking  _somehow_ , Billy manages to ask, "You kiss Wheeler last year?" 

Harrington nods, drags on his cigarette, laughs, "Almost made it all year, too." 

"Maybe you'll do better this time."

" _Look_  at me, man. I'm out here with  _you_ ," Harrington points out. " _I'm_  not kissing  _anybody_."

Billy can _see_ why Harrington would believe that, but.

Billy's not Harrington.

_He's_  got all the information on their situation, even if Harrington doesn't, so.

Yeah,  _Billy's_ not so sure that's true. 

He shrugs, "If you say so, pretty boy."

Like he thinks things are getting  _awkward_ , or something, Harrington changes the subject, goes, "What's the forecast on universes tonight, Hargrove?" 

Billy doesn't fucking  _know_.

"Monsters."

"Yep. _And_?"

" _Look_ , I _don't know_." Harrington looks unimpressed, so. Billy adds, tiredly, "You are _really_  pushing me, tonight,  _Jesus_. Okay. The _future_?"

A thoughtful expression takes over Harrington's face, like maybe he wasn't expecting that, and that's _good_. 

Billy doesn't want him getting _too_ comfortable, right?

He doesn't want _anybody_ getting too comfortable with him. 

"Okay, _and_? What happens in the future?"

How the fuck is  _Billy_  supposed to know?

"I cut my hair. People realize how fucking  _dumb_  it is to leave you and me in charge of little kids. The Pop-Tarts people  _finally_  discontinue the gross apple flavor."

Harrington takes all that in, then: "Yeah, that all makes sense. That sounds like a solid universe."

Billy thinks,  _wait. That's it?_

Billy thinks,  _I wasted my whole night waiting for that?_

Billy thinks,  _that's not fair. You can't do that. You have to give me more than that._

Billy says, "Yeah." 

Harrington's about to go back into the house, Billy can  _tell_ , he can  _see_  him, he's got one foot  _almost_  in the door when he stops, clears his throat, comes back over to where Billy is. 

"Are you  _feeling_  alright?" 

"Yeah." 

"I mean. I didn't think I'd see you, here." 

It's not  _true_ , it's  _not_  what happened, but Harrington never remembers  _anything_  the right way, so Billy takes a chance, lies, "I  _told_  you you would." 

Harrington laughs, shrugs, says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you did."

Billy thinks,  _I wouldn't tell you I'd see you if I wasn't going to show up._

Billy thinks,  _I wouldn't fuck with you like that._

Billy thinks,  _I like you. I want you to like me, too._

Billy says, "You need to learn how to  _listen_ when people tell you what's up, King Steve." 

"I guess. Yeah. Just. You called? And I. Worried? I don't know."

"Well, I'm okay." 

"But you said you _weren't_."

"That's called  _lying_ , pretty boy, and I don't want to fuck up your whole worldview, okay, but most people lie  _all_  the fucking time."

Harrington makes a face, a  _you're lying right the fuck now_  kind of face.

" _Okay_? I don't. I'm not. I was just  _worried_ , that's all, so. I'm glad you're okay." 

Billy's  _not_  okay. 

Nothing's broken, but his ribs are giving him a hard time, and his nose feels tender and fragile and like it could give out at  _any_  fucking minute, which isn't really ideal, since Billy's using it to fucking  _breathe_ , and it's not exactly an  _injury_ , but he feels sore and drained and  _weird_ , all over. 

He probably just needs some sleep, something to eat, maybe a Tylenol.

"You worry about me a lot, King Steve?" 

" _No_ ," Harrington spits, except it comes out _way_ too quick, like a _lie_ , so. 

Billy sighs. "I need another drink." 

 

 

 

 

Billy ducks back into the house for more booze, but he can't find any. 

He's tempted to go grab Harrington, bring him in here, because  _Dancing In The Dark_  is playing on the speakers, and Billy's not  _as_  into Springsteen as he's pretty sure  _Harrington_  is, but.

Springsteen sings,  _hey, baby, I'm just about starving tonight_ , and.

 _Yeah_.

Billy's right there, tonight,  _too_. 

The song ends before Billy pushes through the crowd, gets back outside, and he's not  _really_  expecting Harrington to be right where Billy left him, but.

He  _is_.

He's smoking, has his head knocked back against the wall, is looking up at the stars. 

The sky is going to be ugly to look at, pretty soon. 

Billy's pretty sure about two-thirds of the hicks in this town are planning on setting off fireworks when the clock strikes twelve.

It's just after eleven now, and Harrington smiles when he notices Billy, holds out one of his arms, and Billy doesn't know  _why_.

Are they supposed to shake hands?

 _Hug_?

That's _all_  pretty crazy, so.

He ignores it, just sits down next to Harrington, makes sure to keep a lot of space between them when he does, but he's only there for a minute, maybe two, before Harrington shifts, gets up and into Billy's lap, lifts one of Billy's arms until it's wrapped around him, asks, "You got any weed?" 

Fuck.

Is this really _happening_?

"Nah, you cleaned me out the other day."

Harrington scowls, sighs, waits for at least thirty seconds before he asks, in a hopelessly endearing hush, "And is this  _weird_ , or is it okay?" 

"It's all good, pretty boy."

It's _not_.

There's a _lot_ of reasons why it's not, but the main one that's giving Billy trouble, right now, is just that Harrington's too fucking  _big_  to fit in Billy's lap.

He definitely has less muscle than Billy does, has less weight on him, but he's  _taller_  than Billy is, just a  _little_   _bit_  taller, but it's still enough to be a little bit  _too_  much. 

Billy's  _always_  been good at taking things that are just a little bit too much, though. 

Billy's always been good at  _taking_ things, in general. 

He doesn't sound like himself when he asks, "You comfortable?" 

He doesn't know who the fuck he _does_ sound like, but his voice is coming out too dark, too quiet, too interested.

 _Interested_ , because if Harrington says he's  _uncomfortable_ , Billy's going to move them around until he feels better.

Billy  _knows_  that's what he's going to do, but he doesn't  _want_  to, because he  _likes_  this.

It's  _scary_ , because someone might come outside and see them, and then Billy's going to get  _murdered_ , but.

He likes it. 

He doesn't really  _touch_  people, like this. 

Harrington smells like hairspray, like smoke, like the kind of booze that's too expensive for Billy to ever get anywhere near it, and he's saying, "Yeah."

Billy's going to get hard if they sit like this for much longer. 

 _That's_  going to be a problem.

Harrington lifts both his hands to ghost his fingertips over Billy's hair, and Billy's not  _sure_ , but he thinks Harrington's probably about to fall and die, so he tightens his grip as Harrington breathes out, "I wanna tell you a secret."

Billy waits for what seems like _way_ too long, but Harrington doesn't say anything, just presses Billy's head back, slow and gentle and  _terrifying_.

Nobody touches Billy like this.

Like they're trying to be  _careful_  with him? 

No.

_No one_  does that. 

Harrington lets it out, and it could be a confession, but it could be an epitaph, but it hits Billy like a _goddamn_ religious experience.

"I wish I liked you back when you got here."

What does Harrington _want_?

What is Billy supposed to fucking _say_?

"You're drunk as  _shit_." 

"Well," and Harrington finishes off the last of his drink, throws the empty cup out into the yard, doesn't bother turning his head to watch it hit a tree. He's King Steve again, which means he's exactly who Billy  _doesn't_  fucking _want_. " _Yeah_. Good point. Hargrove 1, Harrington 0."

Billy _wishes_ that were true, but it's not. 

Harrington's got his scoreboard fucked-up.  

Yeah, _somebody's_ winning here, but it's _not_ Billy. 

 

 

 

 

There's nothing left to drink, and Billy's not Harrington, so he didn't show up here  _already_  trashed.

He's sobering up.

It's cold out here, and he's feeling it more and more, and hanging onto Harrington is feeling less exhilarating and more like a fucking  _chore_ , to the point where Billy's starting to think he should just get up and drive home.

He can take Dad's shit, go to sleep, wake up living in a brand new year. 

A brand new  _world_.

Maybe he's too obvious about wanting to leave, because Harrington digs his fingers in against Billy's shoulder, probably hard enough to bruise,  _even_  through the leather of Billy's jacket.

" _Ow_. What the _fuck_!"

"Sorry," Harrington says, after about a minute of just _staring_ at Billy, like he wasn't sure if Billy was _actually_ in pain, or not, like Billy has any real reason to _lie_ about that.  "Hey, you look _good_  tonight, Hargrove." 

What the fuck is Billy supposed to do with  _that_?

If Harrington was a girl, he would grin, he would say  _not as good as you do, baby_ , he would lean in for a kiss. 

But Harrington  _is_  Harrington, so even if Billy _wanted_ to do any of that, he _can't_ , because a girl would giggle nervously until Billy responded, but Harrington just keeps fucking _talking_.

"Your hair's almost _pretty_ when you don't fuck with it. Are you, like. A _mousse_ guy? You might wanna reconsider that, 'cause it's _real_ nice like this." 

_Real nice like this_ , meaning, _what_?

Billy's hair looks nice when he's tired and beat-up and just wants to get the fuck out of the house before Dad decides it's time for round two?

_That's_ when Billy looks _nice_? 

_Jesus_. 

"What the hell do  _you_  put on  _your_  hair, motherfucker?  _Aqua Net_?" 

Harrington scoffs mockingly, " _Aqua Net_? Do you  _know_ who I _am_? Aqua Net,  _please_."  

Billy rolls his eyes.

He can hold Harrington in his lap, because it's New Year's, no one else is really  _here_ , and Harrington's been _so_ fucking weird, lately, that he's  _probably_  just going to be a danger to himself if Billy lets him go, so.

_Fine_ , this is  _fine_ , but Billy's  _not_  talking to him about  _hair products_  all night.

That's just some  _really_  gay shit. 

"Why do you hang out with all those kids all the time?" 

" _Extreme_  boredom." 

"I'm  _serious_." 

Harrington dips his head to yawn against Billy's hair, "Me,  _too_." 

"That one kid's got a thing for you." 

"He  _doesn't_!" Harrington laughs, but he doesn't stop to ask which kid Billy means, which means he knows  _exactly_  what Billy's talking about, and that he fucking  _knows_  Billy is fucking  _right_.  

"Why would  _anybody_  spend  _that_ much time with you if they  _didn't_ want to fuck you?" 

"Are you  _kidding_ , asshole? I'm a  _guaranteed good time_ ," Harrington replies, glaring, but he _doesn't_ sound too sure about it. 

This isn't King Steve talking, not anymore, thank fucking  _God_ , but he's not the sweet sleepy _vulnerable_ thing Billy likes, yet, _either_ , so.

"You don't really  _believe_  that, do you? Just in the interest of  _honesty_ , I mean, you fucking  _know_  what a loser you are, right? You have  _one friend_ , in the  _whole world_ , and he's  _thirteen_ _—_ "

And Billy's got  _more_ , too.

_You have one friend and he's thirteen, and he only likes you because you drive him around._ _What are you going to do when your mommy and daddy take away your car?_   _Who's going to like you, then? You know it's not normal to be alone like you are, right? Why don't you have friends? Why don't you go on dates? Why don't your parents like you? Because, you know they don't like you, right? If they liked you, you would get to fucking see them, sometimes, so. Why are they avoiding you? What the hell are you doing wrong?_

Yeah, Billy  _has_ more, he  _could_  keep it up, but.

Apparently, Harrington's not all that interested in hearing it.

"Shut the  _fuck_  up, asshole,  _Jesus_ , who the  _fuck_  do you think you  _are_?!" 

If Harrington was a girl, he would get up and leave, find someone else to spend some time with, someone who would treat him  _right_.

Harrington's gone tense, like he's annoyed, like he might throw a punch, like Billy just put him in a bad mood.

He  _still_  stays right where he is. 

Billy likes that a  _lot_.

He shifts one of his thighs, gets Harrington slipping and yelping and sinking his fingers into Billy's jacket, again, just so he won't hit the ground.

To Harrington, it probably seems like a power play, and maybe it is, but it feels  _good_ , being  _so fucking close_ , and.

Billy  _still_  wants  _more_.

"I'm Billy Hargrove." 

Harrington snorts, shakes his head, holds up a hand, and it's a little awkward, but Billy gets a hand up to meet it, and their fingers lock together as Harrington sighs, " _Steve_."

And there's a world where nothing happened before this. 

Billy didn't talk to Tommy, so Tommy never brought him over to meet Harrington on Halloween, so Billy ignored him during basketball, so Max didn't send Harrington out to talk to Billy in November, because Harrington and Billy didn't know each other, so it would have been pointless. 

 _This_  is the first time they're talking, the first time for anything, the first time for  _everything_.

There's a universe where that's what's happening, but.

It's not  _this_  one. 

Billy drops his hand down onto Harrington's leg, slips it up his thigh, curves it down against the jut of his hip, and Harrington's talking, low and unsteady and sleepy, about something Billy's not paying attention to. 

He hums every few seconds, just so Harrington thinks he's listening, just so he won't quit talking.

It's not midnight, because if it was, there would be lots of chanting, screaming,  _laughing_ , coming from inside the house, and there isn't, but a firework goes off early, somewhere down the street, and Harrington tenses again, right before he pushes up out of Billy's lap, stumbles into the house, pukes in the hallway with the door still thrown open. 

Billy doesn't follow him in because he doesn't  _have_  to.

Some people wouldn't come back right away.

Some people would clean everything up, they would  _insist_  on it, they would apologize again and again and  _again_. 

Some people, maybe even  _most_  people.

But Harrington's not like that.

Harrington pulls a drink out of someone's hand, puts it to his mouth, swishes some booze around in his mouth, then spits neatly down into the puke on the floor, shouts on his way back out the door and down the driveway, " _Hey_ , Tommy! Happy  _fucking_  New Year!" 

Tommy must come  _running_  at the sound of his name, because it's only been about a minute when Billy hears Tommy screaming, from inside, " _Fuck_! Who the  _fuck_?! Wait,  _what_? Steve who?  _Harrington_?!" 

Billy didn't even  _know_  this was Tommy's house. 

Harrington's BMW stops right by Billy, the window rolls down, Harrington gives him a broad grin, and it  _should_  be gross,  _everything_  about Harrington, right now, should just be too fucking  _gross_  to be attractive, but.

Harrington's just  _that_  fucking fine. 

"Everywhere's closed tomorrow; I  _gotta_  hit McDonald's before midnight." 

Billy doesn't know why the fuck Harrington's telling  _him_  that.

"Okay. See you there." 

Harrington grins, "I'm  _racing_  you there, pretty boy, and you're  _already_   _losing_ ," and then the BMW is just a blur of bright taillights, a shooting star being swallowed up by the black hole that is Hawkins, Indiana, and Billy's  _never_  started his car  _so_  fucking fast.

It's a race, but, for once, Billy doesn't  _care_  about the thrill of competition. 

It's a  _race_ , but.

Billy will  _never_  be able to forgive himself if he lets himself get left behind  _now_. 

 

 

 

 

Harrington wins.

He's eating apple pie, has three plastic cups of soft serve vanilla ice cream spread across his table, a table that's under a streetlight that's been blown out since before Billy got to town. 

Billy strides across the parking lot, sits down on top of the table, informs Harrington, "You are the  _Devil_." 

Harrington rolls his eyes, puts a hand on one of Billy's knees, right where the denim's starting to give up the ghost.

"The Devil wouldn't have got you any pie." 

Billy doesn't  _see_  any pie, except for the pie that's just about to  _completely_  disappear into Harrington's mouth. 

Billy opens up to call Harrington an asshole, a liar, a dumbass who obviously knows  _nothing_   _about_  the fucking Devil, and then sweet warm flaky apple pie is somehow, mysteriously,  _magically_ , pushing into his mouth, so.

Three of Harrington's fingers are in Billy's mouth, now, weak and waiting and getting wetter by the  _second_ , because Billy's  _always_  hungry, and he can  _feel_  his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks on Harrington's fingertips, his tongue working to catch every last little bit of cinnamon and sugar and apples, and a convertible is speeding by with the top down, even though the weather isn't even  _close_  to right for that, and the people in the car are  _so_  loud that even though they're  _just_  about gone, Billy can still hear them shouting, "Ten! Nine!  _Eight_! Seven!  _Six_!" 

And on  _five_ , Billy lets go of Harrington's fingers.

 _Four_ , and Harrington bites his lip, raises his eyebrows, looks down at the tabletop. 

 _Three_ , and Harrington's lifting a cup of soft serve,  _two_ , and Harrington's got a spoon stuck in his mouth,  _one_ , and Harrington looks startled, but he  _should_ , because Billy's grabbing him, pulling him up between Billy's legs.

Three, two, one, Happy New Year,  _whoever you kiss on New Year's, that's who you're gonna be with all year long_ , so Billy winds a hand into Harrington's hair, kisses him like he's fucking  _starving_ , like he's never tasted anything that was  _this_  fucking _good_ , like he might just lick into Harrington's mouth until he's  _lost_  in there, until he can't  _ever_  get back out.

That would be okay.

Billy wouldn't  _want_  to get out.  

This is where he wants to be.

It's dark as hell, it's cold as hell, Billy might really fucking  _be in hell_ , but even the tiny part of him that's still scared of eternal damnation doesn't  _care_  if that's where he is, because he's here with  _Harrington_ , and Harrington's  _finally_  giving Billy what he wants.

He  _is_.

It's not  _like_  the last time.

 _No_ , Harrington's pushing back, is licking into Billy's mouth,  _too_ , is resting heavily against Billy like he just  _can't_  hold himself up anymore, but it's _okay_ , because he doesn't  _have_  to, because  _Billy's_ going to hold him up.  

Harrington tastes a lot like apple pie, a lot like vanilla ice cream, a little like vomit.

Billy's trying to overlook that last part.

It's not as difficult as he would've thought. 

Out of nowhere, Harrington bites down into Billy's bottom lip, but Billy's pretty sure that it's _still_ not like what happened last time.

It doesn't feel like a threat.

It just feels like Harrington's asking Billy for more.

He doesn't _need_ to ask.

At this point, Billy would give it to him even if he _didn't_ want it.

Harrington pulls back, pushes a couple steps away from Billy, goes, "Wanna take me home?"

This might all just be in Billy's head, but Harrington's starting to sound a  _lot_  like he did on that first night they spent together, which means this could've happened _before_ , Billy could've had this  _earlier_ , and it's not _like_ him to deprive himself of anything he wants, so _that_ has the potential to be a _real_ mood killer, but Billy shoves it down deep, so he can focus on tugging Harrington back over to him, humming, "I don't  _know_ , baby. Are you gonna put out for me?"

And Harrington is Harrington, so he's rolling his eyes, shoving at Billy until he lets go of him, walking backwards to his car, calling out, " _I_  won, motherfucker!  _You_  gotta put out for  _me_!"  

"You... _won_? You." Oh,  _Jesus_. This  _fucking_  asshole. "The  _race_?! The race you  _cheated_  at?!" 

" _Don't_  be a sore loser, Hargrove! It's  _not_  very dreamy!" 

 

 

 

 

Harrington doesn't  _know_ , but Billy's fucked-up, bruised-up,  _bleeding_ , a little, still, probably, but he's got Harrington all over him, where they're both sprawled over the steps leading up to his house, and they could be  _in_  Harrington's house, but they're  _not_ , but it's late, it's dark, it's  _safe_. 

Nobody's  _ever_  going to find out about this.

 _Dad's_  never going to find out.

But it's  _still_  too much for Billy, and this has  _never_  happened to him before.

He's  _seventeen_.

He's  _had_  sex.

It's never felt like such a big deal. 

He doesn't know  _why_  he's freaking out like he thinks Harrington's  _different_ , because he's  _not_. 

He's not  _that_  good-looking, he's bad at school, he's bad at sports.

He has no friends, his life's going  _nowhere_ , he's going to be stuck in this piece of shit town until he  _dies_.

He should be happy Billy even likes him at  _all_.

He's not  _special_.

Harrington moans into his mouth, then, and Billy can't  _take_  it, because,  _fuck_ , he's  _not_  fucking  _special_ , but Billy wants him,  _anyway_ , and he can  _have_  him, finally, but.

Billy needs a minute. 

If he  _says_  he needs a minute, Harrington's  _not_  going to want to fuck him anymore. 

 _Nobody_  wants to give it up to a guy who's acting like a fucking  _pussy_.

Except that means there's not much Billy can _do_ , because he doesn't really want to fuck Harrington right now, but Harrington apparently wants to fuck _him_ , but Billy wants to fuck Harrington _most of the time_ , so he _can't_ just throw away the chance at getting to do this _again_ just because he can't do it _now_ , so he _has_ to do it now, and.

And Harrington pushes him away, declaring, "I _gotta_ go brush my teeth." 

Thank fucking  _God_.

"Good; you taste  _gross_."

"I  _taste_  like the  _goddamn American dream_ ," Harrington spits, climbing up off the steps, opening up his front door. "You are the most _annoying_ motherfucker I ever fucking _met_ ; don't you _ever_ just shut the  _fuck_  up?"

Billy licks his lips, smiles, lies, " _No_."

 

 

 

 

All the lights in Harrington's house are out.

Harrington says it's temporary, says it happens a lot on big holidays like this, says  _relax, Hargrove, Jesus_.

There's a few candles flickering around them, and they  _were_  playing Truth or Dare, for about two and a half minutes, but Billy couldn't think of any dares, except dumb shit like  _come here, touch me again, kiss me again_ , and he couldn't _say_ any of that, but Harrington was getting tired again, anyway, so it was easy enough to let the game die down into nothing, but it means that they're both being too quiet, they're both sitting around waiting for something, and Billy doesn't know what it is, or when it's coming, or if it's  _ever_  fucking coming, so he finally just slurs around the last swallow from the bottle of Jim Beam they've been sharing, "There's this one curl of my hair that I really like."

" _What_?"

"There's _—_ "

"No, man, _no_ , I fucking  _heard_  you," Harrington yawns. "I'm not fucking. Oh my  _God_ , look, I  _heard_ you, you. You only like  _one_ part of your hair? Like,  _all_ your hair, and you only like  _one curl_?"

Billy shrugs, and above them, the lights start turning back on, and Billy's eyes hurt from trying to adjust too fast, but if Harrington's having that problem, he must be keeping it to himself.

" _Hargrove_ , that is the  _saddest thing_  I  _ever heard_."

"You just  _puked_  in front of the  _entire fucking town_."

"Doesn't matter. Wanna know  _why_? It's 'cause, even when I was throwing up, my hair looked  _real_ fucking sweet,  _just like always_."

Billy rolls his eyes. 

Harrington's sprawled out in his bathtub, fully dressed, and there's  _actually_  a little bit of puke crusting up in his hair, and Billy can't  _believe_  it's not driving him crazy.

Every time Billy's  _ever_  had vomit in his hair, he's been able to smell it, but not see it, and it always makes him feel  _more_  sick? 

Harrington  _can't_  be made of stronger stuff than Billy is, that's fucking  _impossible_ , but he's _not_ freaking out, so.

_That's_  pretty wild. 

Harrington lights a cigarette, rests his head against the wall, tells Billy around another yawn, "You could sleep with me, if you want."

Billy blinks. 

Harrington doesn't say anything else for a few minutes, just tips his head back, tries to blow some smoke rings, pouts when he can't see them.

Harrington's cigarette burns down, Billy's head starts hurting, the heavy scent of Drakkar Noir starts getting to him.

Maybe it's not very dreamy, but Billy might throw up. 

Harrington coughs out a laugh, looks up at Billy with wide dark  _knowing_ eyes, with his mouth left open like a fucking  _invitation_ , as if Billy's somebody who fucking  _needs_  one, and.

It looks like Harrington's going to take it back.

It  _looks_  like that, but.

"You  _know_  what I mean."

Billy thinks, _I don't know what you mean. Just fucking tell me what you want._

Billy says, "Yeah, no, it's _cold_." 

"Exactly."

"Yeah." 

Harrington nods, puts out his cigarette, echoes, " _Yeah_."

 

 

 

 

It's cold in Harrington's house when Billy wakes up, alone and anxious and annoyed. 

He _shouldn't_ be annoyed, but he _is_ , because it's a whole new year, and _everything_ could be different, right now, but it's _not_. 

He's still _alone_ , and that's not fucking _fair_. 

 _Harrington's_  the one who was all over Billy, tonight, and not just  _once_ , but  _twice_ , like a fucking  _slut_ , so Billy doesn't know why  _he_  feels so weird about it, like  _he's_  done something  _wrong_. 

He's drunk. 

He's tired. 

He's  _cold_.

He probably needs to go home. 

 

 

 

 

Nine minutes later, Billy says, standing at the foot of Harrington's bed, crashing a pillow down over one of Harrington's legs, " _Morning_."

" _You_  are the fucking Devil, _goddamn_ , you are  _Lucifer_ , Hargrove,  _fuck off_." 

"I almost just  _froze_   _to death_."

" _Man_ , I would  _love_  it if you froze to death," Harrington says, longingly, but he kicks his feet out of his comforter, clears some room for Billy to climb into bed with him, so Billy does, because he's  _that_ fucking cold, and Harrington's bed is  _just_  as warm as it looks, and Harrington, who doesn't look very warm, at all, is  _radiating_  heat, so Billy gets in close, fits his freezing cold hands in against Harrington, which is yet _another_ thing that is going to get Billy killed, but he's tired and cold and Harrington's a fucking idiot who never seems to actually fucking  _remember_  anything that  _happens_  to him, so. 

It's going to work out. 

"You have  _dumb_   _arms._ Do you  _know_  that? I mean.  _God_. Why do you  _look_  like that?" 

Harrington can't  _see_  him.

The lights are off.

He's not even _facing_ Billy.

He  _can't_  see him. 

"Why do I look like a  _real life person_  with  _real life limbs_ , King Steve?" 

"You  _know_  what I  _mean_." 

"I  _never_  know what you fucking mean."

Harrington's quiet, again, and Billy almost thinks he's asleep. 

 _Almost_ , until Harrington wants to know, "What happened when you left my house?" 

 _Fuck_.

Is he for real? 

Billy sighs, " _Nothing_."

Harrington yawns when he replies, "You should stay here tomorrow. It's, uh. Gonna be real cold? Might get dangerous to drive." 

Billy doesn't believe that.

He doesn't really think Harrington believes it, either. 

"Yeah, okay."  

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and the sun is starting to come up, and Harrington is about to fall off his bed.

This bed is up pretty high off the ground, so that might  _kill_  him, so Billy grabs him around the waist, drags him back onto the middle of the mattress, hears Harrington mutter, " _Man_ , you are on _thin fucking ice_ ," but he doesn't pull away, so Billy shuts his eyes, is about to fall back to sleep when one of Harrington's hands settles on top of Billy's forearm, and Billy thinks.

 _Well_.

Billy's thinking a  _lot_  of things. 

It's nothing he wants to say out loud. 

He's got a funny little feeling about Harrington.

He  _doesn't_  want to be right on this, but Billy  _can't_  say anything about last night unless Harrington does  _first_ , because he's been thinking, like.

Harrington might not  _remember_  it, and maybe he didn't mean to  _do_  any of it, and maybe he'll freak out if he knows how much  _Billy_  wanted it.

Billy's not sure if Harrington's been  _trying_  to act like the biggest cocktease the Midwest has ever fucking seen, but it doesn't really matter. 

Intentions are nothing, actions are everything, so Billy pulls his hand away from Harrington, moves over to the other side of the bed, shuts his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and the sun is up for real, and Harrington is pushed up against Billy's back, has his face tucked in against Billy's hair, and this whole thing was  _already_  real gay, but it's  _worse_ , now, because Billy can't even  _pretend_  it's not really fucking gay, so he gets out of bed, and he's expecting Harrington to wake up, but he just _lies_ there, looking like a dead body, or something, so.

He prods a fingertip against the bruise on Harrington's face, once, twice, until Harrington groans, " _Jesus_ , just leave me  _alone_ , there's no _school_!" 

Billy offers, casually, "You're a spoiled little bitch; are you aware of that?" 

"Get _away_ from me, Hargrove, or I'll beat your _fucking_ brains out."

The baseball bat from hell isn't in here, though, so.

Billy's not feeling too worried about that. 

 

 

 

  

Last night's footage from New York is playing on the news.

 _Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one_ , and the ball drops, and people scream and kiss and lose their  _fucking_  minds, like they  _just_  can't believe it, like the ball  _doesn't_  drop at the  _same_  fucking time,  _every_   _fucking year_. 

Billy couldn't be  _paid_  to go stand around Times Square in thirty-five degree weather at midnight. 

He can't believe anyone  _does_  that. 

Why not just stay at  _home_  and kiss somebody?

Why would anyone  _go out_  and get  _pneumonia_  just for a fucking  _kiss_? 

That is some  _really_  insane shit, right there.

"Morning," Harrington yawns, jogging down the stairs, dropping onto the couch next to Billy, except it's already after two in the afternoon, so. 

"You  _disgust_  me." 

Harrington just fixes his eyes on the TV, steals a sip from Billy's can of orange Shasta, asks, "How many of those people do you think are on cocaine?" 

" _All_  of them."

Those people can't  _all_  be crazy, but they  _can_  all be on drugs.

 _That_  makes more sense. 

"You don't have any food," Billy says, because he's gone through Harrington's  _entire_  kitchen,  _three_  times, so he _knows_ that's true. 

"How the fuck do you think I  _live_ , Hargrove?! I'm not  _you_ , so  _I_  can't just devour the blood of virgins, or something! I fucking  _eat food_ , okay, there's  _food_ , oh my  _God_ , leave me  _alone_." 

"I feel like we've had this conversation _before_ , but just for the _record_ , I don't go anywhere  _near_  virgins," Billy sneers, finishes off his soda, crushes the can in one hand. 

When he looks up, Harrington's staring at the can, pressed into an almost-neat little disk in Billy's palm, and Harrington swallows loudly, looks up from under his hair, wonders, "Um, do you know how to cook?" 

"Not really." 

" _Shit_ ," Harrington groans. "Yeah. Me neither." 

"When do your parents get back?" 

"Saturday. I think. Yeah, Saturday." Harrington gets up, disappears into the kitchen, shouts, after a minute, "Okay, so, I got pop, and Hostess cupcakes, and ice cream." 

Billy processes this.

"We're going to die." 

"Shut  _up_ , like you  _don't like_  cake, or _—_ "

" _Harrington_ , we are going to  _starve_."

Harrington throws a cupcake at Billy, scowls when Billy catches it without getting up from the couch, sneering as he leaves again, "I'm pretty sure _nobody_ ever _starved to death_ in  _one_  goddamn day, Hargrove. Be a  _man_." 

 

 

 

 

Billy watches the news for a little longer, eats cake, thinks about how much he wants to fuck Harrington.

He doesn't _exactly_ know where the guy is, so when Billy gets up, he expects to be stuck looking for a while, in a big house like this, but he finds Harrington almost immediately, in the dining room, standing on top of a really expensive-looking chair, trying to get a bottle down from the very top of a wine rack.

"You know, if this was _my_ house, and you were standing on _my_ chairs, and drinking _my_ booze, I'd _probably_ kill you." 

Harrington looks down at Billy, rolls his eyes, gets right back to work, saying, "Thank God it's _not_ your house, then, right?" 

"Your parents won't care when they get back?"

"Why  _would_  they care?"

Billy laughs, incredulously, "Harrington, it's _their_ _house_!"

"Possession is nine-tenths of the law," Harrington snaps, which throws Billy off, because he's pretty sure that that's actually  _true_ , and he's not used to Harrington knowing the truth about  _anything_. Harrington grabs his bottle, gets down from the chair, walks over to the table, where there's a square of Klondike ice cream slowly melting all over the wood, and Billy remembers laughing, _looks like you got some fire in you, after all_ , on that fucked-up night when he thought he finally met King Steve, but maybe he was _wrong_ , maybe that was somebody else, because this _has_ to be King Steve, smart and selfish and _vicious_ , out of fucking  _nowhere_. "Do you fucking  _see_  anybody here that's not  _me_? You're in  _my_  fucking house." 

And that's  _not_  true.

Billy can tell that Harrington  _wants_  it to be true, but,  _Jesus_ , it's just  _not_  fucking true, that's  _not_  how it works.

But he can understand being tired, being _resentful_ , or  _whatever_  the fuck Harrington thinks he is.  

He can  _recognize_  that it's not very  _smart_ , but.

It's not his problem. 

 _Harrington_  is not Billy's problem. 

Billy has his  _own_  problems. 

Harrington lights a cigarette, starts trying to open up his bottle of wine, and he looks better than ever, he looks like something out of a fucking  _movie_ , like something Billy should have to  _pay_  to look at, like something up on a screen, something too pretty to be ignored, something too far away to touch.

Billy’s never felt like this around anyone.

Sure, he’s had crushes before, but this isn’t like that.

Or, okay, it’s  _like_ that, but it’s  _also_ kind of like the rush he gets from messing with Max’s head, at the same time.

He’s an animal, he’s the big bad wolf, he’s a motherfucking  _monster_.

And Harrington probably can’t  _help_ it, but.

Jesus Christ, he just looks  _so_ fucking  _good_.

Billy’s never felt  _this_ dangerous before.

He feels like he could eat Harrington  _alive_.

When Billy was a kid, he had that book,  _Where The Wild Things Are_ , and his mom would read it to him before bed, sometimes, back when he was little enough for that kind of thing.

He remembers his mom reading it to him more than he actually remembers the  _story_ , but he knows there was a part where the monsters realize they’re going to be abandoned, so they say,  _please don’t go, we’ll eat you up, we love you so_ , and Billy doesn’t fucking  _love_ Harrington, it’s not  _like_ that, but.

_Fuck_.

Sometimes, it sure as hell  _feels_ like that.

It feels exactly like that same kind of, well. 

It's  _hunger_ , right?

Maybe _that's_ why Billy didn't know what he was doing with Harrington before, why he's always felt so confused and lost and  _angry_  about him, because. 

It feels like hunger, and that didn't make any  _sense_ , so Billy wasn't _thinking_ about it like that, but. 

That's what it is. 

Billy's not sick, or weird, and he's probably not even that  _gay_ , he's just.

_God_ , he's just fucking  _hungry_. 

And he's never really seen Harrington self-conscious, before, but he seems a little bit like it, now, when his face flushes, when he sighs out, " _Jesus_ , Hargrove,  _what_? Why do you always gotta _look_ at me?"

Billy reaches out a hand, opens it, closes it.  

Harrington hands over the bottle, and Billy works the cork out with the key to his Camaro, takes a sip. 

It's _gross_. 

Wine is  _so_  fucking gross. 

Billy hands it back, and Harrington smirks, sets the bottle down on the table, decides, "I'll get you something else. You want water?"

"Okay." 

"Flat or sparkling?"

" _What_?"  

 

 

  

 

Harrington doesn't invite Billy upstairs when he goes to bed, like he really _doesn't_ remember New Year's at all, like he doesn't remember kissing Billy, _touching_ Billy, cuddling up to him, acting like something that was _inherently_ pathetic and needy and  _desperate_.

Billy's angry about it, but he's not _too_ angry.

He _still_ has this whole thing under control.

But there's nothing good on TV, so he walks around the house, waits for an opportunity to present itself and keep him entertained.

It's slow-going.

He can't stop thinking about Harrington. 

Harrington haunts this house like a fucking  _ghost_.

He eats, he smokes, he drinks, and he walks around acting like something that's been dead for _a while_ , but nobody's had the heart to fucking  _tell_  it, already.

He  _haunts_  this fucking house, _every day_ , but Billy's mostly just seen him in his room, in the kitchen, on the stairs.

If Billy didn't know better, he might think that this isn't even Harrington's house at _all_ , because there's almost _no_ sign of him existing in it.

That doesn't make any sense. 

People with kids get sentimental.

They hang on to school pictures and teddy bears and report cards.

Even  _Billy_  has his mom's old photo album, so.

Where the _hell_ is all of Harrington's shit?  

 

 

 

 

There's a room in Harrington's house, toward the back, and it _looks_ like the living room, but it's _not_ the living room. 

It's smaller, and there's no TV, and there aren't any windows, but there's a piano tucked in by one wall, a bookshelf, an old-fashioned wooden chest on the floor that has scratches all over it.

When Billy leans in for a better look, he sees a big letter  _S_  carved into the wood, sloppy and slightly sideways, like maybe whoever the hell took a knife to it was just a baby, so.

Billy sits down on the floor, opens up the box, finds toys, books, an almost  _shocking_  amount of brassy gold trophies. 

Swimming trophies, spelling trophies, Pop Warner trophies. 

Swimming's pretty solitary, and spelling is, too, but football is a team sport. 

Harrington's quiet, he's alone a lot, he doesn't talk to anyone over the age of thirteen except for Billy. 

Sometimes it's hard to remember that he hasn't  _always_  been like that.

Just like Billy was a kid once, Harrington was, _too_ , and the proof is here, hidden away in this room.

The door opens, and Harrington pads across the carpet in his socks, whining, "Man,  _don't_  look at all my dumb baby stuff."

"You snooze, you lose, Harrington." He looks up just in time to see Harrington roll his eyes as he sits down on the piano bench. " _Did_  you sleep?"

"Not really," Harrington admits, after a long moment of heavy silence, when Billy's moved on from the trophies and is looking through the picture books, instead.

_Goodnight Moon_ ,  _Curious George_ ,  _Where The Wild Things Are_.

Billy  _can't_  think about that fucking book, again. 

He doesn't have to.

Harrington won't  _let_  him.

"Hey, Hargrove, you, uh. You wanna go somewhere with me?" 

And everything's still closed because of the holiday, so Billy doesn't know where the fuck Harrington thinks they're going to be able to  _go_ , but.

That doesn't matter. 

_Yeah_ , Billy wants to  _go somewhere_  with Harrington.

Of fucking  _course_  he does.

 

 

 

 

Everything's closed, but Harrington seems like he knows where he's going, like they're  _actually_  going somewhere.

It would be okay if they were just driving around aimlessly.

Billy  _likes_  driving.

But Harrington has somewhere in mind, and Billy doesn't know where until they're already most of the way there, when Harrington's suddenly pulling to a stop on the side of the freeway, getting out of his car, coming around to Billy's side.

Billy slides over into the driver's seat right when Harrington opens the door, gets back in, says in this almost  _embarrassed_  voice, "I don't know how to get there." 

Billy doesn't know why he's getting  _upset_  about it.

It's  _okay_.

As long as  _one_  of them knows where they're going, they're going to be okay.

 

 

 

 

It's cold in Illinois, just like it was cold the other day, but it was early afternoon, last time, and now it's the middle of the night, and Harrington starts shivering as soon as Billy parks the car.

If Harrington was a girl, Billy would feel like giving him his jacket.

But Harrington is Harrington, so Billy  _can't_  do that. 

He doesn't even  _want_  to do that, really. 

Maybe Harrington doesn't know it, but he fucks Billy up  _every_  fucking day, so. 

Billy feels a lot better about life when he knows Harrington's feeling fucked-up, too. 

" _Shit_ ," Billy breathes.

And he thought Harrington was asleep, but he can't be, because he wonders, "Are you talking to  _me_?" 

_No_ , Billy fucking  _isn't_.

"Who the fuck else is  _here_?" 

Harrington shrugs. "That  _doesn't_  mean you're talking to  _me_." 

The Rolling Stones are on the radio, playing  _You Can't Always Get What You Want_ , that creepy fucking  _death knell_  of a song that starts with a fucking  _choir_ , like the sinners who regularly listen to the Rolling Stones aren't already miserable  _enough_. 

Billy glances at Harrington before he reaches out to push Play on the tape deck.

He doesn't know what's in there, but whatever it is  _has_  to be better than _this_ , so.

_What's Love Got To Do With It_  is ending, and Springsteen is starting up,  _Dancing In The Dark_ , and they don't  _sell_  tapes like this, so. 

This is a  _mixtape_. 

Somebody  _made_  it. 

But Harrington's not the kind of person who does that kind of thing, Billy's pretty sure, so. 

It was a  _gift_. 

From who?

_Wheeler_? 

Shit, who  _else_ , right?

It's  _definitely_  from Wheeler.

Billy's angry, again. 

Breaking the tape would make him feel better.

He could tug it out of the player and just  _go_  for it.

Harrington's practically asleep, but even if he wasn't, he  _trusts_  Billy.

He won't believe that Billy's going to break it until Billy's  _already_  done it. 

That's  _dumb_ , but it's not Harrington's fault.

It's just how the human body works. 

Nobody ever expects the worst from anybody else until they've been  _forced_  to. 

Billy  _knows_  that.

Like he can read Billy's goddamn  _mind_ , Harrington sits up quick, stares out the window for a few seconds, and he's  _so_  fucking tense, but it all just  _bleeds_  out of him when he hears Ray Charles drawling,  _everything I try to do seems to always turn out wrong, that's why I want to stop by on my way home and say: let's go get stoned_.

He smiles, sleepy and lazy and soft, "Dustin made me this tape. It's  _good_ , right?" 

And, just like that, Billy isn't angry, because Dustin _isn't_ competition, Dustin's a fucking _loser_ , but more _importantly_?

Dustin's a _kid_ , and Billy  _wasn't_  just being an asshole on New Year's Eve.

Thirteen-year-old boys  _aren't_  really capable of being good friends. 

Sooner or later, he's _going_ to ditch Harrington, and then Billy'll get Harrington all to himself.

Billy grins, shakes his head, repeats, "He has a  _crush_  on you." 

"He  _doesn't_. He's. I mean. He's just  _lonely_."

Why does Harrington have to _be_ like that?

Why does he _always_ have to fuck Billy up?

Because Billy  _just_  felt good, but now he wants to break something, again.

He doesn't know  _where_  this is coming from, he doesn't know why the hell it's hitting him  _this hard_ , he doesn't  _understand_.

All Billy knows is that he wants to tear something,  _anything_ , apart. 

But Harrington is  _so_  fucking smart, it's  _scary_  that he's as smart as he is and no one fucking  _knows_  about it, but he  _is_ , he's talking in this soothing sort of tone, "But he's gonna be okay. He's real young, so. He's gonna meet somebody, and he'll be okay." 

Billy wants to say that he doesn't  _need_  to meet somebody, he  _is_  okay, he's not  _fucking_  lonely.

Because Harrington's smart, but he's _not_ subtle, and he's not talking about the kid, he's talking about  _Billy_. 

"Harrington, I  _don't_  fucking  _care_."

Harrington pulls the tape out of the deck, puts it in his pocket, like it's important, like he needs to protect it, like somebody's going to take it _away_ from him. 

_Billy_  was going to take it away, but it's not like he fucking  _said_   _so_.

How the fuck does Harrington just  _know_  shit? 

 

 

 

 

There's someone looking at him. 

Billy can  _tell_  someone's looking at him, so he wakes up, but he must have just been having a strange dream, because Harrington's not looking at him, because Harrington's asleep, heavy and warm and pressed up against Billy's side.

He wakes up, a little, when Billy pushes him back into the other seat, gets them both belted in, starts the car, but Diana Ross is on the radio, singing _if I've got to be strong, don't you know I need to have tonight when you're gone,_ and when Billy turns the volume up, Harrington goes right back to sleep. 

It's going to be an hour and a half, driving back to Hawkins, maybe a little bit less since there won't be any traffic, and Billy doesn't  _want_  to go back to Hawkins, he wants to go anywhere that's  _not_  Hawkins, but this isn't  _his_  car, and as much as he might be into it if he was,  _Harrington's_  not his, either, so Billy can't make any decisions for him, decisions like  _we're leaving and we're never coming back._  

It's good that Harrington's not his. 

It's fucking  _good_ , because. 

Billy wouldn't know what the fuck to  _do_  with him, if he had Harrington like that. 

 

 

 

 

Billy keeps his eyes open, but he doesn't see anywhere that looks like it might be in the business of selling food.

Maybe nobody starves in a day, but Billy's  _still_  fucking hungry.

Is that even  _about_  food, though, or is it about  _Harrington_?

_Yeah_ , Billy's been thinking a lot about New Year's Eve, but that doesn't mean he's forgotten about Harrington, fucked-up and barely standing, telling him  _Post Apocalypse Billy would have snacks_ , telling him  _Post Apocalypse Billy could fuck me whenever he wanted_.

He might have Pop-Tarts, or something, in the trunk. 

He'd have to look. 

He's not hungry enough for that, though, so.

_Christ_.

It  _is_  about Harrington.

 

 

 

 

The clock on the nightstand says 5:57, and Billy's in bed, in the guest room at Harrington's house, and Harrington's smoking a cigarette in front of the vanity mirror in the corner, running his free hand through his hair, like he thinks it needs  _more_  volume. 

He grins at the mirror when he catches Billy watching him, stands up, announces, "I'm getting some ice cream, if you wanna come." 

"We almost just  _froze to death_ , and you want  _ice cream_?" 

"We were never gonna  _freeze_ , but we almost  _starved_  to death, Hargrove. I'm  _starving_." 

" _No_ , you're  _not_." 

" _You're_  the one who fucking  _said_ —"

Billy doesn't want to eat anything. 

He wants to reach up and drag Harrington into bed, wants to lick and kiss and  _bite_  at him, but he doesn't want to  _go_  anywhere, he doesn't want to  _see_ anybody, he doesn't want to fucking  _eat_  anything. 

That's not like him. 

Shit.

Harrington fucks him up  _so_  goddamn bad. 

"I'm  _me_ , not  _you_ , so  _actually_ , I would  _never_ say something  _that_ dumb."

And Harrington, Harrington who doesn't sleep, Harrington who  _still_ hasn't learned how to take a punch, Harrington who chewed Billy's fucking  _face_  open, leans in close, rests a hand on Billy's bicep, smiles lazily as he asks, "But you kinda  _just_ did, right?" 

If Harrington knew about all the shit Billy wants to do to him, he _wouldn't_ talk to him like that. 

He would be too scared. 

A month ago, maybe even a _week_ ago, Billy would've _wanted_ Harrington to be scared.

He's not sure if he wants that, now.

"What are you _doing_ in here, _anyway_? You're giving me the heebie jeebies." 

Harrington shrugs. "Couldn't sleep." 

"You  _were_  asleep." 

"Guess I woke up." 

And Billy  _wants_  to think Harrington woke up because Billy left him alone and went into the guest room, and Harrington woke up, missing him.

That's a nice idea, he  _wants_  to think that, but. 

"I had a weird dream. _You_ were there, actually." 

"Hey, no,  _listen_ , I _don't care_  about your fucking  _dreams_." 

It's probably unsettling, for Harrington, having _dreams_ about Billy coming into his room and pushing him around and doing whatever he wants, but that's not Billy's problem.

Harrington should kick Billy out, or he should lock his door, or he should call the cops. 

It's not _Billy's_ fault that Harrington's dumb, and it's _also_ not Billy's fault that there's nobody here to protect Harrington from Billy, so. 

He sighs, "Ice cream?" 

"Yeah, but _you_ gotta drive; I feel like I'm fucking _dead_." 

Wait, _Billy_ has to drive? 

"What were you going to do if I _didn't_ wake up?" 

Harrington admits, easily, "I've been waiting on you for, like, an _hour_."  

Billy accuses, " _Freak_."

 

 

 

 

It's still early when they hit the diner that's closest to Harrington's house, but it's already busy. 

School's out, but everyone over eighteen is headed back to work, rushing around to get on the freeway before rush hour traffic from Hawkins' neighboring towns makes the drive out to Indianapolis feel like it's a trip all the way to Lake Michigan. 

Billy eats two plates of hashbrowns while he keeps an eye on Harrington, who's across the street, smoking and picking up a newspaper and nodding at something the guy at the newsstand is saying. 

When Harrington comes into the diner, the cigarette's gone, but he's still got the newspaper in his hand, and he informs Billy, brightly, "Temperature was sixty-two, yesterday! Danny, over there? Yeah, he just told me he's got some cousin who works at the news station, and  _he_  says he heard that's as hot as it might get  _all month_." 

" _Why_  would you tell me that?" 

Harrington adjusts his copy of  _The Hawkins Post_ , pulls out another paper from underneath it, the  _Los Angeles Times_.

It's the big copy, the Sunday edition, and it's  _pristine_ , like it's been wrapped in plastic, like it hasn't been stuck out in the awful Midwestern wind for the past couple days.

The date on the top of the front page says  _December 30th 1984_. 

It's the last piece of 1984 Billy's ever going to see. 

It's probably the last piece of  _home_  Billy's ever going to see.

"Guess how hot it is, over there, these days?" 

Billy slowly chews his last bite of potatoes, analyzes the facts that have been set out before him, decides, "Jesus  _goddamn_ Christ, Harrington, you are a  _real_  fucking asshole." 

" _Mid-sixties_!" And Harrington's grinning like the fucking  _Devil_ , again. "And they  _think_  it might hit eighty by the weekend!  _God_. Eighty. That's _pretty damn hot_ , isn't it, Hargrove? I don't know if I  _remember_  eighty degrees. Hasn't been eighty out here, since.  _Fuck_. August?  _Maybe_  July."

Billy is going to fucking  _murder_  Harrington. 

"King Steve, you are fucking  _disgusting_. You make me  _sick_. This is  _sick_. You're  _sick_." 

The newspaper is covering up most of his face, but Harrington lowers it enough to aim a delighted little grin at Billy.

What a bastard. 

Billy wants to hit him until he stops smiling. 

He wants to  _kiss_  him until he stops smiling,  _too_ , but. 

Billy's flexible. 

At this point, he could  _really_  just go either way.

A waitress pauses next to them, drifts a hand over Harrington's shoulder, says, "Sorry, hon, didn't you see there. Can I get you something?" 

"Yeah, can I get a chocolate milkshake, please?" 

"No."

Harrington blinks at Billy, looks back at the waitress, repeats, " _No_?" 

Gently, the waitress explains, "Baby, it's  _six-thirty_  in the  _morning_."

Billy doesn't really care about this.

Harrington's weird ice cream addiction is clearly a problem.

But it isn't  _Billy's_  problem.

It's  _not_  Billy's problem, but,  _Jesus_ , Harrington looks like the world is about to end, so.

Billy demands, "Yeah, but you've  _got_  ice cream,  _right_?" 

" _Yeah_ , it's not that he  _can't_  have one, but if I put in a ticket for a milkshake at six-thirty,  _somebody's_  gonna spit in it," the waitress admits, looking exhausted. "Okay? The blender is real loud, the ice cream is all—"

"No, no," Harrington says, quickly. "No, you're _right_ , sorry, thanks, uh. _Thanks_ , I just wasn't thinking, I'm sorry. Um, can I have some coffee, please?" 

She nods, smiles, walks away. 

" _Fuck_ , what a  _bitch_."

"Shut  _up_. She  _could've_  let me just drink  _spit_." 

"Do you think a little bit of saliva's  _really_ going to hurt you?" 

Harrington yawns, " _No_ , Hargrove, but that's  _not_  the point." 

The point is probably that, spitters aside, most people are  _nice_  in Indiana. 

Billy's  _not_  nice, and he's  _not_  about to start pretending that he is.

He stands up, drops five bucks on the table, gets Harrington up and out of the booth and drags him out the door, and Harrington's saying something, but Billy ignores him, because it's probably just useless bullshit, anyway. 

Honestly,  _sometimes_ , it's like Harrington talks just to prove he can still  _do_  it.

 

 

 

 

There's a girl from school who works at her family's restaurant, and it's tinier than all the other ones down in the busier part of town, but they're open early, too, and she blushes when she sees them come in, blushes  _harder_  when Billy leans over the counter and smiles and asks if she would mind making him a chocolate milkshake. 

Billy knows the girl's wearing a nametag, but he doesn't care enough to read it, just watches her disappear into the back to make the drink herself, allows himself a quick glance back at the table Harrington's claimed. 

The table's far away from the door and the windows, and Harrington's pressed himself into the very corner, right up against the wall.

His head's down on the table, turned to the side, eyes closed.

He looks tired, or bored, or half-dead, or.

Maybe all three. 

There's no jukebox here, just an old radio, and Billy's  _probably_  not supposed to, but he reaches for it, dials around until it's playing something that comes through without any static.

He doesn't really know what song it is, but it doesn't matter much, because it ends pretty fast, and  _Build Me Up Buttercup_ , the most annoying song  _ever_ , starts up, instead, and.

Billy waits. 

He waits, he waits, he  _waits_ , and the girl brings out the milkshake, so Billy gives her a  _big_  smile, licks his lips, watches her blush again before he goes to sit with Harrington. 

Harrington lifts his head up, takes a deep breath, uses both of his hands to mess around with his hair. 

When Harrington's had a few seconds, looks a little more alive, Billy pushes the milkshake across the table. 

Harrington bites his lip and then quickly licks over it, like he thinks it _hurts_ , like he thinks he has _any_ real understanding of physical pain, before he smiles, "Thanks?" 

The song is ending soon, it  _has_  to be, it's been on for a while, but it's still too cute and upbeat and sweet,  _you never call, baby, when you say you will, but I love you still, I need you more than anyone, darling, you know that I have from the start_ , and Harrington's mouth opens up wide, closes delicately around a spoonful of ice cream and whipped cream, and Billy doesn't know if he's  _ever_  wanted somebody  _this_  fucking much before, but he thinks he probably hasn't. 

Maybe  _nobody_  ever has. 

This  _can't_  be normal. 

This  _is_  hunger.

He wasn't wrong about that.

It almost fucking  _hurts_ , how much he wants Harrington, and that's  _insane_ , because Harrington's _right here_ , and Billy  _can_  have him.

If this was ordinary hunger, Billy would just fucking  _eat_  something, and then he would move on, but Harrington licks his lips one more time, asks, polite and happy and easy, "Wanna taste some of this? It's  _real_  good."  

_Jesus_.

"No. Thanks." 

 

 

 

 

There's a cop in the diner.

It's  _the_  cop, the one who dragged Billy home to get the hell beaten out of him, the other night, after Christmas. 

Billy tenses, just on instinct, but the guy moves past him, orders something up at the counter, leans against it like he doesn't have anywhere to be.

Harrington says, absently, "He's not gonna  _arrest_  you. He's mostly okay." 

Billy has never met a cop who was  _mostly okay_ , before. 

Statistically, he knows they've  _got_  to exist, but.

Billy's never  _met_  one, and he has met a  _lot_  of cops. 

" _Listen_ , pretty boy, there's this thing I like, in my life, and it's called  _silence_." 

Harrington rolls his eyes, messes around with his pink-striped milkshake straw, offers, "Look, I can just  _go_?" 

Is Harrington  _trying_  to be funny?

Because that's  _really_  funny.

No, Harrington isn't going  _anywhere_. 

Not without Billy, anyway.

" _No_ , King Steve, you  _can't_."

 

 

 

 

When Billy stopped paying attention, Harrington's cop friend decided to  _stop_  being mostly okay, because of fucking  _course_  he did, so he's standing by their table, now, looking down at them, and.

Before Billy can get his mouth open, Harrington swears, " _Jesus_ , Hopper, it's  _seven_ ; I got outta bed, and I came _right here_. I haven't fucking  _done_  anything."

"Yeah, well, I'm not really worried about  _you_." 

Harrington rolls his eyes, leans back against the cracked vinyl covering their booth, snaps, " _He_  hasn't done anything,  _either_." 

That's  _not_  true.

Billy's done a  _lot_.

Like, he's not about to own up to it in front of a fucking  _cop_ , or anything, but. 

Yeah, no, he's  _definitely_  done a lot. 

"Huh. Okay,  _that's_  bullshit. Come on, get up."

And Billy  _doesn't_  want to make this guy's life any easier, but resisting arrest is  _always_  a bad vibe, so he's halfway out of his seat before he realizes that that part wasn't directed at  _him_ , because Harrington's following the cop out the door. 

Billy can't hear anything, sat so far away from the windows, but he's not fucking  _blind_ , so he clocks it when the cop makes a sudden dramatic nearly-violent hand gesture and Harrington takes a quick step back, like he's worried he might catch a hit to the face, which he  _absolutely_  won't, not from an unprovoked cop in plain sight,  _this_  early in the morning, but. 

Harrington doesn't fucking  _sleep_ , and he  _doesn't_  eat enough, and if _Billy_ was Harrington, maybe  _he_  would be kind of slow on the uptake, _too_ , because  _Billy_ sure as hell eats and sleeps, but  _nothing_  in his head is making  _any_  goddamn sense. 

Billy eats a few spoonfuls of ice cream, but whatever fucking  _miraculous_  effect this stuff has on Harrington  _isn't_  kicking in for Billy.

That seems pretty unfair, but.

The guy  _is_  probably starving to death.

Maybe his body is just grateful for whatever it can get.

Billy closes his eyes, feels sick, waits, waits,  _waits_ , but  _finally_ , the bell above the door jingles, there's footsteps making their way over to the booth, and Harrington slides in next to Billy, like this is where he was before, like he  _wasn't_  sitting on the other side of the table, like this  _isn't_ weird.

Billy asks, "Hi?" 

" _Hi_ ," Harrington mutters. "I just.  _Jesus_."

Billy nods. 

There's at least a whole minute where nothing happens, but then Harrington sinks down further in his seat, kicks his Nikes up on the other side of the booth, leans his head against Billy's arm.

" _Man_ , January fucking  _sucks_." 

And Harrington's  _so_  close, but this whole thing feels almost like a  _rejection_ , and Billy's  _not_  going to fucking say anything about it, because he can tell it's  _not_  a fucking rejection, he can fucking  _tell_  he's just being dramatic and oversensitive and fucking  _gay_ , so if he  _says_  anything, he'll  _just_  seem like an asshole, and he's kind of been thinking, like.

Well, maybe Billy's going to try  _not_  to be such an asshole?

_Just_  when he's around Harrington.

_Just_  for a little bit.

What's that called, again?

A New Year's resolution?

Nobody really follows through on those, _anyway_ , but maybe Billy can at least try it out, see if it's worth the effort.

So, he's  _not_  going to say anything, but Harrington grabs the milkshake off the table and holds it to his chest, groans around the spoon that's stuck in his mouth, "This is the  _best thing_  that's gonna happen _all_ year, just  _wait_ , I  _swear_."

And now it's fine again.

Billy  _doesn't_  feel rejected anymore, everything's  _fine_ , and Billy didn't even have to  _do_  anything, Harrington just did what Billy wanted him to do  _without_  him fucking  _doing_  anything, and that's  _crazy_ , that shouldn't be  _possible_ , but it  _is_.

It's  _happening_.

He  _wants_  to be mean about it, but he's trying  _not_  to be mean, and anyway, Billy is  _not_  as good at being mean to Harrington as he _wishes_ he was, so.

Billy laughs, "What, you think you're  _not_  going to drink a  _million_  milkshakes this year?"

"I'm gonna be  _nineteen_ ," Harrington points out, sulkily. "I'm getting too  _old_  for this shit." 

 

 

 

 

Harrington overtips when they leave, by about seven dollars, but it's  _his_  fucking money, so. 

Billy pretends not to notice, just heads down the street, toward his car, because it's fucking  _freezing_ , out here.

There's a HELP WANTED sign up outside the hardware store.

Billy knows almost nothing  _about_  hardware, but a job's a job.

He didn't really have the time for a job, when they first moved to Hawkins, but he  _knows_  that Dad's gonna be on his ass about it soon, so.

Maybe he should get ahead while he still can. 

Harrington follows his gaze, yawns, "You  _don't_  wanna work there, man." 

"Oh, is that  _right_ , King Steve? I  _don't_?"

" _Okay_ ," Harrington rolls his eyes. "You  _obviously_  want to  _now_ , but I'm  _telling_  you, it's a  _bad_   _idea_." 

Billy raises his eyebrows. 

Harrington ducks his head away from the wind, lights two cigarettes, pulls one away from his mouth to hold it out for Billy. 

Billy steps away from him, lifts a thumb over his shoulder, explains, "I'm applying in there, real quick."

" _God_." Harrington lets out this tired little groan, sinks down onto the curb, lifts both cigarettes back to his lips. " _Yeah_ , but  _I'm_  the one who's sick."

Billy's already holding the store's door open, and he  _knows_  it's probably going to make him seem like a violent psycho who shouldn't be given a job, which makes this a  _huge_  waste of his time, but.

_Jesus Christ_.

"Who the hell  _else_  do you know who buys a  _newspaper_  out of pure fucking  _spite_?!" 

Harrington doesn't look at him, doesn't move, just yells, "Yeah,  _just me_ , asshole!" 

 

 

 

 

The sun is still taking its sweet fucking time rising when Billy pulls the Camaro to a stop outside of Harrington's place. 

And maybe things were getting busy down by Main Street, but they're definitely  _not_  out in Loch Nora.

Everyone's still asleep, out here.

Cars are still parked in every driveway, tiny gray-brown rabbits are hopping around by all the ridiculously over-groomed flowerbeds, the sky is just a  _little_  bit more pink and purple than anything else, and.

And Harrington's squirming around anxiously in the passenger seat. 

Billy only watches him for a couple of seconds before he turns off NPR.

He fucking  _hates_  NPR,  _anyway_.

"What's wrong?" 

"What?  _Nothing_." 

"What's your fucking  _problem_ , Harrington?" 

" _Shit_ , Hargrove, if I had  _known_  you were fucking  _deaf_ , I would've been  _nicer_  about your  _disability—_ "

"Yeah,  _keep_  talking shit, King Steve; see where  _that_  gets you." 

Harrington rolls his eyes, opens the door, and. 

"Seriously, _hey_ , hold up. You're okay, right?" 

" _Why_  are you asking me that?" 

That's a  _great_  question.

When Harrington figures out the answer, he should  _share_  it, because Billy has  _no_  fucking idea. 

"Whatever."

Harrington makes an amused confused  _dismissive_ face as he leaves, and the lights in the living room turn on right after Harrington's front door shuts, and Billy can  _see_  that, because Harrington's curtains are _wide open_. 

He sits there,  _waiting_ , but. 

Harrington doesn't close the curtains, doesn't turn off the lights, just goes up the stairs. 

It's like he  _wants_  someone to break into his house and kill him. 

_Jesus_. 

Billy fucks around with the radio until he finds a station that's playing The Beatles'  _Twist and Shout_.

It's not the kind of thing Billy usually likes, but.

It's a new year.

And Harrington's goddamn curtains are  _still_  open. 

Billy hits the horn once, twice, three times, before a window opens upstairs, and Harrington leans out of it to shout, "It is  _eight AM_ , asshole! I have  _neighbors_!"

Just for that, Billy honks two more times, then shouts back, "Close your fucking  _curtains_ , dumbass!" 

Harrington gives him the finger, closes the window, disappears. 

_Billy, Don't Be A Hero_  comes on the oldies station, next, so Billy turns the radio off, and. 

The curtains close, the lights shut off, and Billy pulls his car out of Harrington's driveway. 

 

 

 

 

Harrington's copy of the  _Los Angeles Times_  is in Billy's car, on the backseat.

Billy doesn't know how it got there, doesn't know when Harrington could've put it there without him noticing, until he remembers he left Harrington alone on the street for about five minutes. 

It probably doesn't really mean anything. 

It's  _just_  a newspaper. 

 

 

 

 

"Good morning, Billy." 

" _Is_  it a good fucking morning, Maxine?" Billy asks, when he's done drinking orange juice straight out of the carton. " _Is_  it?"

Max rolls her eyes. "I don't know; you tell me." 

Oh.

Well.

Billy's not really _sure_. 

"I'll get back to you." He won't, though. He's too  _tired_  to deal with Max's bullshit. He's  _so_  fucking tired. "You need something?" 

"No?" 

"Are you  _asking_  me or  _telling_  me?" 

Max shrugs.

"Well, _I'm_ going to bed, so. If you need to go somewhere, you can fucking skate."

 

 

 

 

There's a knock on Billy's door, and according to his wristwatch, it's nine-twenty, and.

He pushes out of bed, pulls his door open, raises his eyebrows.

"Are you okay, Billy?" 

"I am _always_ okay, Susan." 

"Are you  _sure_? You didn't eat dinner, and Maxine said she didn't see you much, today." Before Billy can figure out what the  _fuck_  is happening, Susan's lifting the back of her hand to his forehead, pressing gently, wondering, "Were you _drinking_ the other night?" 

Billy thinks,  _what kind of question is that?_

Billy thinks,  _of course I was drinking. I was drinking like my fucking life depended on it._

Billy thinks,  _if you were me, you would want to get drunk as shit, too._

Billy lies, "No."

"I won't tell Neil, but if you're  _sick_ , you _—_ "

Billy moves forward, forces Susan back a step, gets her hand off his fucking face as he snaps, "Get off my  _dick_ , Susan. I'm  _not_  sick, okay? I'm fucking  _tired_." 

He pushes his way into the bathroom, shuts the door, closes his eyes and presses his face up against the mirror.

It feels too cold, so.

His face probably  _is_  too warm. 

Billy  _is_  getting sick.

_Shit_.

Susan is going to be  _insufferable_. 

 

 

 

 

It's late at night, or.

It's early in the morning.

It's dark, and Billy's having trouble focusing his eyes when the bathroom door opens, and Dad takes a piss, washes his hands, turns around to sigh, " _Jesus_ , Billy." 

Billy mumbles, "I'm  _sleeping_." 

Dad inhales, deep and loud and  _dramatic_ , like maybe he thinks Billy doesn't already fucking  _know_  he's annoyed.

He steps over to the shower, pulls on Billy's arms until he's standing up, but Billy's going to fall, if Dad lets go, and he's never actually  _wanted_  Dad to touch him, before, not fucking  _ever_ , but if he falls down in here, he's going to crack his head open and  _die_. 

That would be  _great_  for Dad. 

This fucked-up asshole would fucking  _love_  that. 

Billy's never bought into how funerals should be like parties.

He wants people fucking  _sobbing_  at his funeral. 

Dad would throw Billy's funeral like it was a party, though. 

It would  _really_  fucking be one, for him.

He doesn't want Dad touching him right now.

He doesn't  _trust_  him.

" _No_ , put me  _down_. Dad.  _Dad_." 

"It's  _four-thirty_ ," Dad bites out, gets Billy out of the bathroom, down the hall, back to his room. Dad's  _strong_. Billy  _forgets_  that, sometimes. He shouldn't be  _able_  to forget it, but. He  _does_. "If you don't shut your  _goddamned_  mouth before you wake everyone up, I'm going to give you something to  _really_  cry about." 

Is he for  _real_?

Is Billy fucking  _crying_?

He doesn't _feel_ like he's crying.

God. 

He's so _sick_. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and the sun is up, and Max is sitting in the corner of his room, reading a book, sighing, "I have to check your temperature in an hour." 

"Okay." 

Max gives Billy this suspicious look, like she thinks Billy has any goddamn reason to  _pretend_  to be sick, like that makes _sense_.

"Mom says you need to go to the hospital if your temperature goes higher than 103." 

Billy doesn't  _care_  what Susan says.

_Susan_ is a _stupid bitch_ , and Billy fucking  _hates_  her.

"How high is it now?" 

Max flips a page in her book.

It might actually be one of  _Billy's_  books.

His books are probably too grown-up for her.

Maybe he should take it away.

" _Um_. Don't worry about it," Max hums. "Hey, I brought your newspaper in from your car. Do you wanna read it?"

Billy can barely fucking see _Max_ , so he's sure as hell not going to be able to read a fucking _newspaper_ , but even if he _could_ , he doesn't _have_ a newspaper, he's probably _never_ had a newspaper, so he doesn't know what the _fuck_ this kid is _talking_ about. 

"When's the last time you _ever_ saw me reading a fucking _paper_ , Maxine? _Jesus_ , are you fucking _dumb_?"

Like she thinks he's not going to fucking _hear_ it, or something, Max bitches, "I _love_ spending time with you, Max. Thanks a _lot_ for helping me out." 

Billy's definitely right on the edge of sleep when he points out, blearily, "I didn't fucking _ask—_ "

"Oh, _sure_ ," Max says, _loudly_ , like Billy's not fucking _talking_ , like Billy _hasn't_  already taught her not to interrupt him. "Yeah, Billy, you're _right_ , I _do_ have better things to do, but knowing you're okay means _more_ to me than having _fun_ with my _friends_ , so..."

If Billy dies from the fucking flu, or whatever, Dad is _still_ going to be Dad, and that means he's going to terrorize Max until the day she leaves for college, or the day Sinclair knocks her up and proposes and they run away together, or the day Susan _finally_ gets a divorce and leaves, so maybe there _is_ a world where Max has something better to do with her time than sit around the house making sure Billy doesn't die, but it's definitely not _this_ world.

" _Fuck_ _you_ ," Billy slurs. "Go get me some juice."


	2. Chapter 2

Billy wakes up, and Springsteen's  _Born In The USA_  is playing from his speakers, and Steve Harrington is in his room, laid out on Billy's bed next to him, with his eyes fluttering shut, then open, then nearly-closed again, like his body _wants_ to sleep, but his head just won't _let_ him. 

Harrington's not naked, but he's _close_.

He's wearing a pair of sweatpants that Billy _knows_ are his because they have a rip across the left knee, and they're riding _so_ low on Harrington's hips that Billy can fucking _tell_ he's not wearing anything underneath, and.

Harrington smells like the expensive cologne Billy _only_ wears when he's got something special going on, and he smells like weed, and he smells like he's got all of that sticky-sweet ice cream sweating straight out of his pores. 

Billy can't be sure, but he _thinks_  he's in his usual universe, so.

He doesn't know what the _fuck_ is going on.

" _Harrington_?" 

Harrington smiles sleepily, leans up and over Billy's chest, groans, "I been _waiting_ on you for, like, an _hour_. I only _stayed_ 'cause you _said_ you were gonna _fuck_ _me_." 

Billy tries, "I didn't say that." 

" _Don't_ do me like that, baby. You _said—_ "

"I _didn't—_ "

" _I_ said you were _real_ sick, so I should _go_ , and. And _you_ _said_ , if I didn't wanna stay with you, you were gonna have to eat me up, and you would keep me _forever_ ," and Harrington pouts, pulls lightly at the charm on Billy's necklace, whines, " _Remember_?"

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and Susan's talking to Dad, out in the hallway, right outside of Billy's door.

He can't hear Dad, but he _can_ hear Susan, and her voice gets louder, higher, _faster_ , then drops back down, then gets loud, again.

They're not fighting.

 _Sure_ , Dad gets quiet when he fights with _Billy_ , but he always used to be loud as all _hell_ when he fought with Mom, and he's probably the same with Susan, so.

They're not _fighting_ , they're just _talking_ , but Billy _needs_ them to shut the fuck up, because there's too much _noise_ , it hurts, it hurts, it _hurts_ , and Billy can't fucking _sleep_.

Billy's mom wouldn't be doing this to him.

Mom would be quiet if Billy needed her to be quiet. 

He _doesn't_ expect Susan to act like she's his fucking _mother_ , but sometimes, he _still_ catches himself feeling _really_ disappointed when she doesn't just do it, anyway. 

Billy falls out of bed, really _falls_ , and he doesn't feel strong enough to get up, so he just stays where he is, stares at the glass of juice, the pack of the plastic-wrapped fruit snacks Max usually takes with her to school, the cold grilled cheese sandwich that's on a plate on the floor by his bed. 

He _doesn't_ want to eat.

He _wants_ to go back to sleep, but. 

He's _not_ sleeping on the floor like a fucking _animal_. 

It takes him a minute to push up off the floor, get over by the doorway, but he still has to lean his forehead against the wood for another couple minutes before he feels steady enough to step back and open the door.

"Is everything okay?" 

By now, Dad's all the way at the other end of the hallway, but he turns slowly, irritably,  _tiredly_ , like he's about to accuse Billy of  _acting out_ , like he's got better shit to do than handle yet _another_ tantrum from his fucking _problem child_ , like he doesn't like _wasting his time on Billy_. 

Before Dad can say anything, Susan wants to know, "How do you feel, Billy?"

"Okay. Thanks."

And Dad leaves, and Susan raises her eyebrows, smiles gently, repeats, "How do you _feel_?" 

She's asking him again because Dad is fucking gone, _right_?

So, _what_ , she thinks Billy is about to say something _different_?

Because, _hey_ , yeah, Billy _will_ say something different, he'll say something fucking _honest_ , if that's what the woman fucking _wants_ from him, but she's _not_ going to like it.

"Got me feeling like I'm in fucking  _hell_ , Susan." 

Susan puts a hand on Billy's face again, like they _don't_ have a thermometer, like she doesn't already goddamn  _know_  that Billy's sick, like she thinks she fucking  _gets_ to _touch_ him. 

"And how long have you been feeling that bad?" 

Billy thinks, _I don't know. I'm tired. I might be dying. Can you remind me exactly how long it's been since you started riding my dad's dick?_

Billy says, "Since this one night in October." 

Susan makes this face like she's been slapped, like Billy would _ever_ fucking _slap_ anybody, like that's _not_ a bitch move, like Billy _doesn't_ work out all the time just so he can _really_ hurt people.

Susan swallows hard, looks down at the floor, tells him, "It's getting late. I wanted to. I wanted to say, I. I can...stay home with you, tomorrow, if you _—_ "

"In _what_ goddamn world would I _want_ you to do that?" 

"Well," and Susan smiles again, hopeful and quick and barely-there, " _Max_ will be here, anyway?" 

Max is _always_  wherever Billy _doesn't_ want her to be, so.

 _Yeah_.

Billy fucking _knows_ she'll be here. 

"So, if you need anything _—_ "

"I _need_ you to leave me alone." 

And Susan's _someone's_ mom, but she isn't _his_ mom, and she never fucking _will_ be, so.

She leaves Billy alone. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and he's alone.

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and he's _tired_.

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and someone's crowing, "This is  _kinda_   _awesome_!" 

"It's  _awesome_?! If he _dies_ , we're  _all_  in trouble!" 

" _How_?!" 

"Are you  _shitting_ me?!" 

Billy  _needs_  that kid to shut the fuck up.   
  
He can't remember his name.

The _annoying_ one.

The one with the hat, and the voice, and the _hair_.

_Harrington's_  kid. 

Billy opens his mouth, plans on hitting the wall, shouting for everyone to get the  _fuck_  out of his  _house_ , or for them to, at _least_ , just stop fucking  _talking_ , and. 

His voice comes out in a weak strained rasp that he can hardly even  _hear_ , and his throat feels like it's swelling up, like he can't  _breathe_ , like he's drowning on dry land.

He feels like he's going to fucking  _die_. 

It's  _just_  his throat, though.

He can still breathe through his nose.

He  _knows_  that, but.

_Fuck_ , Billy's throat  _really_  fucking  _hurts_ , and his  _head_  hurts, too, now that he's thinking about it, and it's too  _hot_  in his room, and he's so fucking  _tired_.

It takes a few minutes, but he gets up, opens his window, holds his wristwatch up to his face while he breathes in ice-cold air for twenty seconds, twenty-nine, forty-three, and then he shuts the window again, because Harrington said it was going to be lower than sixty-two  _all_  fucking month, and Billy made his  _peace_  with freezing to death as soon as Dad told him they were moving to the Midfuckingwest, but Billy fucking  _refuses_  to freeze in his  _own fucking bedroom_. 

Billy is  _not_  that fucking dumb.

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and Sinclair tells him, "My dad was in the army."

He thinks,  _I don't fucking care._

He thinks,  _why are you talking to me?_

He thinks,  _guess what, kid? My dad is a fucking psycho, and he's going to fucking kill you if you don't get the fuck out of here before he comes home._

But he can't fucking  _talk_ , so.

Sinclair adds, "Don't worry, 'cause if you pass out again, I know how to turn you over so you don't choke on your puke. I mean, just 'cause.  _Then_  you would die." 

Max shouts, " _Jesus_ , Lucas, don't tell him he's gonna _die_!" 

"Why _not_?" Somebody else sneers, "Sorry, I _still_ don't get it, we're pretending we like him _just_ 'cause he has a _cold_? You guys,  _everybody_ gets colds, but _everybody's_ not a psycho racist."

"I am _not_ a fucking _racist_ ," Billy growls, and the room goes quiet, and Billy can't lift his head to see anyone, can't do anything except desperately try to drag in breath after breath after breath. "I hate _everybody_ in this _goddamn_ house the _exact same fucking way_."

The thing is, that _is_ a lie, but it's not a lie about _Sinclair_.

It's _not_. 

Billy hates Max so much fucking _more_ than he hates everyone else. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and Springsteen's  _Born In The USA_  is playing from his speakers, and Steve Harrington is in his room, laid out on Billy's bed next to him, with his socked feet propped up on Billy's pillow. 

Billy tries to figure out how the  _fuck_  this could have happened, tries to figure out what day it is, tries to figure out what fucking  _universe_  he's in.

This could be another dream, but Billy would _never_ have a dream where Harrington was _this_ gross, so.

He  _thinks_  he's in his usual universe.

He  _thinks_  it's Friday, but it  _could_  be Thursday, or Saturday, or fucking  _Sunday_. 

He  _thinks_  Max needs to stop letting people into  _their_  house without  _Billy's_  fucking permission. 

Harrington isn't looking at Billy, he's glancing back toward the door, demanding, " _Wanna_  give me back my glasses?"

"No!  _Jesus_ , Steve, you're  _on a time-out_! I took them as a  _punishment_ , and then you  _did the thing_  I told you  _not_  to do,  _anyway_!"

" _Yeah_ , Dustin," Harrington scoffs. "You  _stole_  something from me to  _punish me in advance_  for something I  _didn't do_ , and you thought,  _what_? I  _wasn't_  gonna do it? Why did you think  _that_? Don't you fucking  _know_  me?"

" _Steve_! You're  _making fun_  of  _real problems_  that  _people die from_!" 

"I am _only_ gonna say this shit to you _one more time_ , Dustin: _The Exorcist_ is not a fucking _documentary_!"

The kid standing in Billy's doorway ignores that, just looks _right_ at Billy when he continues loudly, "And, by the  _way_?! I  _didn't_  wanna come here! If Steve  _is_ having  _that kinda problem_ , this is the  _last_   _place_  he should be!"

Billy has _no_ fucking idea what's going on. 

Sounding like maybe _he_ doesn't know what's going on, _either_ , Harrington asks, blankly, "What about a church?" 

" _Oh_ , are you  _shitting_  me?!" 

"What about that one really  _big_  Catholic church, that's got all those nice windows, with the colors on them?"

"What the  _hell_ are you  _talking about_?!"

_Billy_ knows what Harrington's talking about  _now_ , so he offers, "That's some stained glass."

"Oh my  _God_ , don't  _help_   _him_!"

Harrington goes, "Yeah, the one with the _stained glass_ windows."

" _Steve! Stop it_!" 

" _Man_ , you know  _what_ , though? That priest, there? He fucking  _hates_  me, and I _never_ worked out  _why—_ "

" _Nobody_  has  _ever_  hated you as much as _I_  hate you! I'm  _leaving_!" 

"So, you're telling me you're heading into the...?"

" _Steve_ , I  _don't know_! I'm just!  _I'm_! I'm going where _everybody else_   _is_!" 

"Safety first!" Harrington gives the kid a thumbs up, turns back to Billy, smiles. " _Anyway_. Hi."

Jesus  _fucking_  Christ.

"What's up with him?" 

"Who? Oh, what,  _Dustin_?" Harrington explains, casually, "Yeah, I don't really _know_ , I mean. He just thinks I'm a _demon_ , so."

Oh.

Well,  _that's_  not so bad.

Billy used to have an aunt like that, but.

She was a  _Protestant_ , so. 

There wasn't ever a real sense of  _danger_.

He nods, coughs, sighs, "Been there."

Harrington starts laughing, then, and.

_God_. 

It's like he can't fucking  _stop_.

Billy _probably_ shouldn't like that as much as he does.

Billy shouldn't like _most_ of the things he likes, though, so.

 

 

 

 

_Born In The USA_  needed to get flipped over to the other side, so Harrington got up to fuck around with the tape a few minutes ago, but he hasn't come back to Billy, yet.

He's just wandering around Billy's room, touching all his records and his books and the dirty clothes Billy's got all over his floor.

Suddenly, Harrington pulls his sweatshirt over his head, tosses it on the floor, pulls this old leather jacket out of a box Billy hasn't unpacked yet and starts tugging it on. 

Billy can't fucking _believe_ this guy. 

"You're gonna just _steal my shit_ right in _front_ of me?" 

Harrington shrugs the jacket all the way onto his shoulders, rolls his eyes at Billy before he turns to check himself out in the mirror, wonders, "This thing really _fits_ you?" 

Billy rescued that jacket from a thrift store in Venice back in ninth grade, finally outgrew it last summer, when he got serious about weightlifting.

_No_ , it _doesn't_ fit, but it's still _Billy's_.

And _Harrington_ isn't Billy's, but. 

If there was one thing Billy's fucked-up dream got right, it was that Harrington apparently fucking _needs_ to listen to Springsteen _every_ fucking day of his life. 

If there was _another_ thing, though, it's that Harrington looks  _delicious_ when he's wearing Billy's clothes. 

Billy's _mouth_ is watering.

He looks _that_ fucking fine.

Harrington takes the jacket off, puts it back, comes back to sit on Billy's bed, again.

It's a lot less like a dumb platonic baby sleepover, this time.

It's a lot more like there's a pretty little thing climbing onto Billy's bed, looking a _lot_ like he wants to climb down onto Billy's dick.

Billy is still so fucking _tired_ , he _needs_ to get some more sleep, but Harrington's so hot and cold, with him, these days, and Billy's getting _real_ tired of it.

This is probably a good time to just  _go_ for it, lay down the law, tell Harrington what's up so he'll _finally_ understand what Billy fucking _wants_ from him.

Maybe Billy's just been too fucking _subtle_ this whole time. 

Harrington clambers over Billy's calves, settles by his knees, and _all_ he has to do is lean forward and his pretty pink mouth is going to be _right_ on Billy's cock, over his pajamas, anyway, so.

Billy forces his voice down low and disinterested and only a _little_ bit like he's been wanting this for _two fucking months_ , when he asks, "What're you trying to do, King Steve?" 

"I had this _real_ weird dream about you." 

"Don't you have a _lot_ of weird dreams?" 

Harrington gives Billy that _same exact_ look from Billy's dream, the other night, all dark heavy-lidded eyes and that sweet lazy already-fucked-out-but-I'm-ready-to-go-again smile when he shrugs, " _Yeah_ , well. My ones about _you_ aren't usually like that."

Billy thinks, _what the fuck does that mean?_

Billy asks, "What the fuck does _that_ mean?" 

And this isn't a dream, it _can't_ be, because Harrington was _all over Billy_ in his dream, tugging at Billy's necklace like he did on New Year's Eve, saying he was waiting for Billy just like he did the other morning at his house, calling Billy _baby_ like nobody ever does unless they're _desperate_ for a dickdown and just don't want to seem _too_ slutty.

_That_ was a dream, but _this_ is real, this is Harrington the way he _really_ is, sleepy and a little bit bored and a lot like he's about to blow Billy's fucking _mind_ , until. 

Some kid leans into Billy's room, reports flatly, "Dustin says you'll buy us milkshakes." 

Harrington slips off of Billy's bed as he sneers, " _Wheeler_ , why the _fuck_ would he say  _that_? I  _hate_  Dustin. I'm _never_ buying him _anything_ ; is he fucking  _insane_?!" 

From somewhere else in the house, Dustin screams, "But I'll give you _back_  the Ray-Bans!" 

Harrington rolls his eyes at Billy as he yells back, " _Newsflash_ , motherfucker! I don't fucking  _want_  them, anymore!"  

 

 

 

 

"Hi, Billy," Susan says, leaning into Billy's room, smiling,  _waving_ , like he can't fucking  _hear_  her, or something. "How are you feeling?" 

"Okay."

Billy's  _not_  feeling okay, but he's not  _dumb_ , so he _knows_ what's going on. 

"That's good to hear." Susan looks embarrassed,  _ashamed_ , maybe, even, when she finishes, "I. Well. Neil wants you to come eat at the table?" 

_Yeah_ , but Dad _only_ wants that because he's a  _dick_.

It's not like Billy  _needs_  to eat. 

He  _gets_  that, now. 

_Sure_ , his body needs food to survive, but it'll take a few days for him to  _really_  need some food. 

He doesn't need to eat  _right now_ , but Dad doesn't _care_ , because Dad's an asshole who  _hates_  Billy, and  _loves_  humiliating him, and wants him fucking  _dead_ , so. 

Billy nods slightly, and  _that_  hurts his head, but who cares? 

He sits up, eases off his mattress, and  _that_  hurts, too, because his whole body hurts,  _all_  of his limbs fucking  _hurt_ , but who the fuck  _cares_? 

_Nobody_. 

_That's_  who fucking cares.

He stands up, rests a hand on the wall, hisses, "I'm  _coming_ ," because Susan's  _still_  in here, she's still fucking  _staring_  at him like he's performing at a fucking  _freakshow_.

She takes it like the dismissal that it is, doesn't  _exactly_  run out of his room but definitely doesn't fucking  _walk_ , either, and. 

Billy is going to  _die_. 

He is, he fucking  _is_ , he _knows_ it, and he's _almost_ out of his room, but. 

There's something here that doesn't belong. 

There's a note stuck to Billy's mirror, in Harrington's handwriting, that just says, 

_B,_

_You're sleeping _—_  Max is kicking us out._

_Feel better soon!_

_S_

_p.s. Me and Dustin made up + he wants me to tell you he really does know a priest if you're not sick + just need an exorcism._

Billy reads it once, twice, three times, before he heads for his door, again, muttering, " _Jesus_ , we  _all_  know a fucking  _priest_." 

 

 

 

 

"You didn't want to go play that game with your friends?" 

Max cuts a nervous glance at Billy, shakes her head, shoves some bread into her mouth. 

Dad asks, "Now, I thought you kids did that every week?" 

Max nods.

Susan says, quickly, quietly, _nervously_ , "That is  _not_  how we answer questions, Maxine." 

Billy _only_ gets away with rolling his eyes because everyone is trying to pretend that Billy's _not_ about to drop dead at the kitchen table, and the only way to really manage _that_ is just to avoid looking at him. 

Max swallows, drinks some juice, says, "We  _do_  play every week, Neil, but. I just _don't_ wanna go this time." 

Dad nods, and Max doesn't _know_ him like Billy does, so she doesn't _get_ it.

_Billy_  gets it. 

Billy wants to fucking  _cry_ , already, because.

_Yeah_.

He  _gets_  it. 

 

 

 

 

Nobody _else_ gets it until they're already halfway through dessert.

It's Max's favorite.

Cheesecake with cherries. 

Billy likes cheesecake.

He's got a fucking _heart_ that is _unfortunately_ still beating in his goddamn chest, so,  _yeah_ , he fucking  _likes_  cheesecake, but he can _barely_ keep his eyes open, but he's eating dessert, anyway, because he knows he has to. 

Billy can do  _anything_  if he  _has_  to do it.

This night isn't even  _sort of_  over, even though Max clearly thinks it is, and Susan probably does, too. 

Billy scrapes his spoon over the edge of his plate, a few times, because he can barely fucking  _see_  straight, and maybe the noise is annoying, because _that's_ when Dad looks at him,  _finally_ , and.

Dad  _smiles_. 

"Now, Maxine, your friends can't play that game without you, can they? Because, last week, or maybe the week before, your brother said you had promised you would be there, and that, if you _weren't_ there, no one would be able to play. They come up with the... _characters_? In advance?" 

Max agrees, slow and unsure and quiet in that way that she normally only is with Billy, " _Yes_?" 

Dad nods, again. "Well, to me, that seems. Well, and it's not _your fault_ , Maxine, but your father should have taught you that if you  _say_  you'll do something, you  _have_  to follow through." 

There's not a  _single_  person in this fucking room who  _doesn't_   _already know_  that Max's dad is a useless fuck.

He always calls on Max's birthday,  _always_  calls on Christmas,  _always_  picks up when Max calls him on Father's Day. 

Maybe Max's dad  _is_  an asshole, but the thing about him is just that Billy  _still_  remembers the first time he _ever_ hurt Max, because she was  _shocked_.

She's scared of Billy  _now_ , but she wasn't  _then_ , because she didn't know she fucking  _had_  to be, because there had never been a man who was pushing her around  _before_. 

Billy's got a  _lot_  of reasons to hate Max, but that one is _definitely_ up in the top five.

He's  _so_  fucking jealous of her.

Billy would commit  _murder_  if it meant he could have a dad who was more like Max's than his.

But, Dad has a point.

Maybe she's better with her _promises_ , Billy wouldn't know, but Max _never_ follows through on her threats. 

"You're  _only_  as good as your word, Maxine. So, you'll go out to play with your friends, tonight. Your brother will drive you, and he'll wait for you until you're done. As  _long_  as it takes. Isn't that right, Billy?" 

Billy thinks,  _I'm going to hit you until all your fucking blood runs right out of your body, you sadistic piece of shit._

Billy agrees, "Yes, sir."

Susan stands up, starts taking all their plates over to the sink, bites so hard on her lip that it looks like it hurts.

_Good_.

That's  _good_.

Billy  _hopes_  it fucking hurts.

Billy wants her to hurt _worse_ than that.

Billy hopes  _everybody_  in this fucking house gets  _real_  used to feeling like they're fucking  _dying_.

It's not fair that it's just him, it  _really_  isn't, because. 

It's not like he's  _never_  done anything wrong.

He knows that.

Billy has done a  _lot_  of bad things.

But he hasn't ever done anything _bad enough_  to deserve this kind of shit.

He  _hasn't_. 

If this was the first time something like this was happening, if this was a one-time thing, Billy would  _absolutely_  think he deserved it. 

But it's  _all_   _the time_ , it's  _every day_ , and that's  _not_  fair. 

Dad's not  _God_. 

He doesn't get to put Billy through hell just for kicks. 

He  _doesn't_. 

It's not fucking  _fair_. 

"Neil, I _—_ "

"I wasn't  _asking_  you anything, Maxine. Go get ready to leave. You don't want to be late." 

 

 

 

 

They're in the car for about ten seconds when Max offers, "We can just. Park, around the corner, or something? The Party will  _say_  I'm there, if Neil calls, and. We  _don't_  have to go, okay?" 

_Great_ , so.

What, the kid _pities_ him, now?

_Fuck_.

Billy's whole life is just falling to fucking  _pieces_. 

Billy _wants_ to laugh, but everything _hurts_ , and he's _tired_ , and it's not like any of this is really  _funny_ , anyway, so. 

He shakes his head, pulls the Camaro out of park, turns the radio on, and Tina Turner starts singing, _it scares me to feel this way, what's love got to do with it? What's love, but a sweet old-fashioned notion?_

Billy's never really been a fan of hers, before tonight, but.

_Shit_.

Tina Turner fucking  _knows_. 

 

 

 

 

The Byers' house is  _still_  a total shithole.

Max and her thousands of friends are in the living room, and they're  _all_  looking at him weird. 

Billy  _doesn't_  know why. 

They still don't fucking  _like_  him?

Whatever,  _fine_ , but why do they think he fucking  _cares_?

Billy cares about  _himself_ , he cares about  _not_  pissing off his dad anymore than he does just by fucking _existing_ , he cares about  _not_  passing out in this house tonight, because the  _last_  time he did that, his life went from shitty to even fucking worse, _fast_ , and he  _can't_  risk a repeat of that.

Because how much worse can it  _really_  get, from here?

If it gets _worse_ , he's going to  _die_ , right?

He  _doesn't_  want to die out here.

Billy _can't_ fucking _die_ in motherfucking _Indiana_.

It's been five minutes, ten,  _twenty_ , when he clears his throat, lifts his head off the Byers' kitchen table, demands, "Are you little bastards going to start  _playing_ , or  _what_? I don't have all fucking  _night_  for this shit."

Billy  _does_  have all fucking night, and Max  _knows_  it, but she just tells him, "We. We just have to wait for Dustin, so."  

The dead kid, the  _zombie_  kid, the kid who  _actually_  fucking  _lives_  here, the only one who  _wasn't_  here that night when Billy came over looking for Max, like  _that_  made _any_ fucking sense, tries, "Uh, Billy? You can nap in my room, if you want?" 

"Do I fucking  _know_  you, motherfucker?"

"Um. No?"

" _Great_. Then maybe don't get so fucking  _familiar_  with me." 

 

 

 

 

"You're Billy, right?" 

Billy blinks. 

There's a hand on his forehead, then fingertips against his neck for what feels like too long, then: " _Hi_. Can you hear me? Your name is _Billy_ , isn't it?" 

Billy has met this woman before.

He had to pick up Max one time, and when he got out of his car, she asked who he was, twisting her face up like she thought maybe Max had a _way_ older boyfriend, like she thought she should call Susan to tell her about it, like she thought somebody should be keeping a closer eye on Billy.

Even if Max _wasn't_ an evil bitch intent on ruining his life, even if she _wasn't_ his stepsister, Billy wouldn't even touch her with _somebody else's_ dick.

Billy slurs out, "Is the game over?" 

"Yeah, man, it's over," someone says, and Billy's pretty sure that's the older Byers kid, the one who's fucking Harrington's ex, like he's  _so_  fucking into girls who look like little boys that he just  _couldn't_  keep his cock out of her even though she  _already fucking belonged to somebody else_.

Maybe somebody should keep an eye on _him_ around Max. 

Byers, who tried to start shit with Billy the other day, Byers, who hit Harrington on accident the other day, Byers, who hit Harrington on _purpose_ a whole year before Billy ever even moved to town. 

_Yeah_ , Billy's pretty sure that's him, but he's not  _totally_  sure, because he  _still_  can't see, he's  _still_ too tired for this shit, he still needs to go  _home_. 

"How about I drive you there, okay, honey?" 

Is Billy talking out loud? 

He's not  _trying_  to. 

He digs his fingernails into his palm until the bite of pain wakes him up enough for him to sit up straight, lift his arm so his watch catches the light, and.  

_Oh_ , sweet baby  _Jesus_.

It's not even  _eight_. 

_Yeah_ , Dad's no _genius_ , but he'll still know if Billy brings the kid home early. 

He'll _know_.

Why doesn't anybody fucking _understand_ this shit?

" _Why_  lie about that? If they're  _still_  fucking playing, just  _say_  it." Billy stands up, grits his teeth, adds, "I don't need _anybody_ driving me _anywhere_."

"I don't think that's _—_ "

" _Listen_ , lady, I'm not fucking  _asking_  you. Do you understand the  _concept_  of a  _goddamn driver's license_? Let me clear it up for you:  _smarter people than you_  have determined that I can, in fact,  _drive my own fucking car_."

Byers looks nervous. 

Byers' mom looks _pissed_.

Billy doesn't fucking _care_.

She sighs, "You're going to  _hurt_   _yourself_." 

Billy has heard that line a _lot_ in his life, mostly from his dad, like Billy is _really_ supposed to believe that it's _his own fucking fault_  when Dad hits him. 

It's _weird_ hearing it from a woman, but _especially_ from this one, because, well. 

What the _fuck_ does she think she's going to _do_ to him? 

She's  _just_ as tiny and skinny and tired-looking as both of her kids are. 

Is she fucking  _crazy_?

He could  _kill_  her.

Billy _knows_ he talks a lot of shit about her, but at least he never has this problem with _Susan_.

Susan's thin, too, _sure_ , but she eats, she sleeps, she's just about as tall as Billy is.

If Billy ever loses it and hits Susan, she might _fall_ , or something, but she won't fucking _die_. 

_This_ bitch might fucking _die_.  

"If you crash your car tonight, Billy, your little sister will get hurt, too." 

Oh, _that's_ what she's worried about? 

_Max_?

Max, who is so fucking _special_ , Max, who is so much _better_ than Billy is, Max, who got shoved at Billy like the _worst possible kind of punishment_ a few years back.

Just that _one_ time, Dad could have beat him half to death, and Billy would have fucking _thanked_ him for it, as long as it meant that he would  _never_ have to deal with Max. 

Because _that_ punishment would have ended after a half hour, and Billy would have been in pain for  _weeks_ after, but, _eventually_ , he would have been able to _move on_. 

Max Mayfield is the fucking albatross on Billy's neck that's going to weigh him down until he finally kicks it. 

And Billy couldn't say it at dinner, because he was sick and tired and Dad was  _right_   _there_ , and maybe Dad's still in Billy's head, _fine_ , but the son of a bitch isn't really _here_.

No, no, no.

_No_ , the scariest person in this room, in this whole fucking  _house_ , probably, is  _Billy_ , so Billy doesn't hold back, lets his mouth work into something that _might_ look like a smile as he snarls, "That bitch is  _not_  my fucking  _sister_ , but you're _right_. Every day of my life, I fucking  _pray_   _to God_ that she'll just  _die_ , but, yeah, _no_. Good looking out, sweetheart. I _don't_ want her getting _hurt_ in my  _car_." 

And Billy honestly didn't _realize_  it, but he's been moving in close, slow and easy and lazy, and he's _bigger_ than them, he's _seen_ more shit than them, but he didn't realize he might be _scaring_ them, he _really_ didn't.

But he realizes it _now_ , when Byers steps in front of his mom, lifts one of his hands like he's going to touch Billy, like he's going to push Billy back to protect her, at best, punch Billy again, at worst. 

It's almost cute, but it's a stupid move.

Billy _might_ feel bad hurting Byers' mom, but he _already_  hated Byers before this, so he _won't_ feel bad if it's him.

He doesn't bother cutting his eyes down to Byers' hand, just lets one of his own hands come up to catch it, instead, tightens his grip as he growls, "Now, what _exactly_ did you think you were gonna do with _that_?" 

Billy's in a _lot_ of pain. 

He's _dizzy_. 

He's _so_ tired.

But he's been playing this game for _years_.

He could win the Olympic fucking _Gold_ for this shit. 

Billy's woken up fighting before, he's woken up _screaming_ before, because he's not _like_ most people, he's not like _these fucking people_ , he  _actually_ has to do this kind of thing in his _sleep_ , so it's _easy_ doing it now, it's _so_ fucking easy to _smile_ as he shoves Byers back, shouts, " _Maxine_!" 

"Billy, she's _not_ going with you; I said _no_ ," Byers' mom rushes out, but she's holding onto her own kid, looking _terrified_ , like maybe she's wising up, like maybe she fucking  _knows_ Billy was just thinking about knocking her son dead in her own fucking house.

She's holding onto _her_ kid, which means the kid that Billy needs to go get is fair game, so Billy turns, almost falls _flat_ on his face when he's going into the hallway, calling out, "Maxine!  _Girl_ , do you _think_ I'm fucking _playing around_ with you?!" 

A door with a big NO TRESPASSING sign on it opens up, and Sinclair tells Billy, in an admirably calm voice, "We're not done yet, but Max can get a ride back with _—_ " 

But the thing is, Sinclair's being _reasonable_.

And Billy doesn't know _why_ Sinclair thinks Billy is someone who is going to respond well to that kind of shit, because Billy fucking _isn't_.

Billy can't even _walk_ straight, so he sure as shit can't _think_ straight, and he _knows_  that that's true, because, apropos of fucking _nothing_ , Billy's suddenly got his old prayers swimming around in his head, _forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil_ , when he pushes Sinclair, watches him fall down on his ass, goes out of his way to knock the Dungeons & Dragons table over, too, since he's _already_ in the mood to shove things around. 

That's _Max's_ fault. 

She _knows_ him.

She _knows_ what he's like.

As _soon_ as he called her name, she should have gotten the fuck up.

It's not _his_ fault that she didn't.

She knows _better_ than that. 

Billy's fucking _taught_ her what happens when she doesn't listen to him. 

"We're leaving." 

"Billy, _please—_ "

" _Now_ , Maxine."

 

 

 

 

That cop who made Harrington uncomfortable the other day is waiting outside of the Byers' place, and he tells Billy to _take it easy_ , he tells Billy to let go of Max, he asks if Billy's been drinking. 

Billy doesn't say jack shit, because he knows his fucking rights, so he knows he doesn't _have_ to say anything. 

But, if this fucker _does_ want to arrest him, _all_ bets are off, because Billy is _not_ getting arrested tonight.

_Everything_ Billy just did?

Yeah, he _only_ did it because it's what Dad fucking _told him to do_ , and he's _not_ getting arrested for that asshole.

He would rather fucking _die_. 

"Am I free to go?" 

"Have you been drinking?" 

" _Am_ I free to go?" 

"Look, _kid—_ "

"Is there a _reason_ you _—_ "

"Hopper, he's _sick_ ," Max interrupts, quickly, standing a couple feet away from Billy, looking scared and small and like Billy fucking _hit_ her, or something. Billy has to get the _fuck_ out of here. He's so _tired_ of all this shit. He _shouldn't_ have to put up with this. None of it's fucking _fair_. "He's _just_ sick, he has the _flu_ , really bad, I mean, he's been in bed _all week_ , but his dad, my stepdad, he _made_ Billy _—_ "

" _Shut up_ ," Billy spits, and Max _does_ , but maybe Billy shouldn't have said it, because, now, the cop narrows his eyes, drops his cigarette, steps it out. 

"Fine.  _Get_. Go _straight_ home, if you're so damn sick." 

"I need to take her with me." 

"No." 

Billy glances over his shoulder, back at the house, trying to think fast.

He used to be so _good_ at that.

He's _not_ , anymore.

And Billy  _knows_  how to talk to cops, he fucking _knows_ it's just  _am I free to go_ , and _I don't consent to that_ , and _is there a reason you're stopping me from leaving_ , and that is  _all_ he should _ever_ say, but. 

"You don't _understand_. My dad, he. If I don't. You don't _get_ _it—_ "

And Billy's been angry all night, but he hasn't been _this_ fucking angry, not until _right the fuck now_ , when the cop looks Billy in the eyes as he says, " _No_ , kid. I think I understand. Answer's still no." 

 

 

 

 

"Hi."

"Hey." Harrington stands at the top of the steps leading up to his house, tilts his head, raises his eyebrows. "You  _alive_ , man?" 

_Yeah_ , but. 

Not for much _longer_.

Dad would have _killed_ Billy if he showed up at home without Max, and even if he was in one of his rare good moods, he would have killed Billy as soon as Sinclair's mom, or Byers' mom, or her cop boyfriend called to rat Billy out, so. 

So, he  _couldn't_  go back home, and Billy didn't have anywhere else to  _go_ , so he's here, but he does not fucking  _want_  to be here.

He  _looks_  like shit, he  _feels_  like shit, he almost _does_  want to die, so this is  _not_  the right time for him to be talking to  _Steve Harrington_ , but. 

Here he fucking is, _anyway_.

"Unfortunately." 

Harrington just sighs, " _Look_ , you can come in, but we _gotta_ move your car, 'cause my dad's coming home early tomorrow, and he is gonna  _lose_  his  _shit_ if he can't park." 

Harrington doesn't know, because he's been inside his house the whole time, but it just took Billy almost  _five whole minutes_ to heave himself out of his fucking car. 

He's  _not_  getting back _in_. 

Harrington's got a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth, is wearing pajama pants that look soft but not very warm, and he's off the stairs, is tugging lightly at that one curl at the back of Billy's head that Billy likes, even though Billy didn't  _tell_  him it was that one, but Harrington _still_ picked out the right one,  _anyway_ , and Harrington eases Billy's car keys out from his fingertips, murmurs, like he's asking a  _question_ , like he needs  _permission_ , like he fucking _cares_ what Billy  _thinks_ , "I'll be right back, okay?" 

 

 

 

 

Nobody  _asks_  Billy for anything. 

Billy gets  _told_  what to do, but nobody fucking  _asks_  him for shit, except Max, because she's too scared  _not_  to, and.

And Harrington. 

But.

Billy doesn't know  _why_  Harrington keeps doing that.

He's wrapped in two blankets, sitting on Harrington's couch, again, and Harrington pulls the thermometer out of Billy's mouth, holds it up to the light, shrugs, "100.4, motherfucker. You know what  _that_  means?"

Billy shakes his head.

Harrington smiles, runs gentle fingers up Billy's jaw, messes with his hair as he informs him, "You're gonna  _live_ , pretty boy. You're gonna get  _better_ , and  _then_  you're gonna start wearing _scarves_ , and _gloves_ , and _layers_ , just like  _everybody the fuck else_."

"You'll make me look  _dumb_." Billy's whole head is a  _mess_. He can't believe he's  _talking_. He can't believe he fucking  _drove_  over here. He feels like he's fucking dead. He protests, weakly, "I'm  _from California_."

"And nobody's  _ever_  gonna forget it, okay, killer? _Relax_." 

Harrington obviously thinks it's funny, but people  _do_  forget who the fuck you are if you don't fucking  _remind_  them. 

They  _do_.

And Billy's  _not_  about to let anyone forget about him. 

No  _fucking_  way.

 

 

 

 

Harrington takes Billy upstairs, but not into the guest room.

No, Harrington takes Billy into  _his_  room.

And Billy kind of thought he wasn't coming up here, again, unless.

Until he caught Harrington asleep, again. 

_Until_.

It was  _going_  to happen, but he just thought he would have to _wait_ for it, again.

Harrington asks, "Do you want clothes?" 

Billy shrugs. 

Harrington sighs, "I'm gonna find you some clothes." 

 

 

 

 

Harrington gives him some clothes, sets Billy up in the guest room, and.

Billy can  _still_  remember the first time he slept in here.

He remembers he didn't like it.

Or.

He _liked_ it, but then Harrington  _ruined_  it.

He was screaming, and breathing too heavy, and acting like he was getting fucking  _murdered_. 

As somebody who is _really_ going to be murdered soon, Billy feels fairly confident in calling that an overreaction, no matter  _what_  Harrington dreams about at night. 

When Billy dies, it's going to be quiet. 

When Billy dies, _he_ is going to be quiet. 

_God_. 

He _hates_ the guest room. 

He doesn't feel like a fucking  _guest_ , anyway. 

He feels like an  _intruder_. 

 

 

 

 

Harrington's at the table, downstairs, again, but.

Not like a _normal_ person.

He's lying flat on his back across the middle of the table, smoking a cigarette, staring blankly up at the ceiling, and he doesn't even look over at Billy when he walks in, just yawns, "Hungry?"

Billy's _not_ hungry.

He's nauseous.

He's too tired to eat.

He doesn't want to be alone, though, so. 

He sits down, shrugs, and Harrington is off the table, is disappearing into the kitchen, is back in the dining room with wine and water and food.

The chair at the head of the table is pulled out, like Harrington was sitting there earlier, like he was planning on sitting there again, but he's dropping down into the seat next to Billy, now, yawning, "Okay, say grace." 

"No." 

"Do it." 

" _No_." 

Harrington asks,  _grinning_ , like Billy's  _already_  said yes, like he already fucking  _knows_  Billy's going to say yes, " _Please_?"

Billy almost feels  _bad_ , admitting, "We weren't really  _that kind_  of Catholic." 

"Back in California?" 

"Yeah." 

" _Sucks_. Except you're _Hawkins_ Billy, not _Malibu_ Billy, so.  _Do_   _it_."

Billy rolls his eyes. "If I do it, what are _you_ going to do for _me_?" 

Harrington shrugs. "What do you  _want_?" 

Billy wants a  _lot_.

"Why do you eat so much ice cream?" 

Like it's hands down the craziest shit he's ever heard, Harrington sneers, "You want me to  _stop_   _eating ice cream_?" 

" _No_ , King Steve, I just want to know  _why_  you do it." 

No one's said a prayer, but Harrington starts eating, anyway, like he  _doesn't_  care about what Billy thinks, or what Billy _wants_ , or who Billy actually fucking _is_ , and _that's_ too much, because Harrington is the _one_ fucking person Billy thought he could _count on_ , a little, kind of, but Billy was fucking _wrong_ , so he's up, and he's in the living room, and he's by the door, and down the stairs, and then, and _then_ , and then, _finally_ , he's in his car, where he  _fucking_  belongs.

 

 

 

 

Billy's home, and Max must be, too, or Dad would be out here, yelling at him, but he's _not_.

Honestly, Billy's _pretty sure_  Dad's fucking Susan in their room.

That's what it _sounds_ like, anyway, but maybe he's _killing_ her.

That would probably sound the same, more or less. 

Billy gets into his room, locks his door, pulls Harrington's note off of his mirror.

He should have done that before he left, but he wasn't fucking  _thinking_. 

But if  _Dad_ had seen something like that?

_Jesus_.

Billy would be dead  _already_. 

He's about to ball it up and throw it away, when he spots something weird. 

There's something written on the back. 

Billy holds the note up to the light, leans in, reads,  _back on the horse! now we're really going to have some fun!!!_ and Billy doesn't know what that _means_ , he doesn't _get_ it, until he  _does_. 

He hunts through his closet until he finds his jacket, pulls out the thinly-wrapped gift Harrington gave him at Tommy's party, opens it up, and.

There's  _Bright Lights, Big City_ , and when Billy opens the book, flips past the first couple pages, he spots it. 

The narrator is high, at a club, in New York. 

He's striking out with all the girls he flirts with, the friend he came out with ditched him, so he's all alone, and.

McInernery wrote,  _You realize that you are at a crucial juncture vis-à-vis morale. What you need is a good pep talk from Tad Allagash, but he is not to be found. You try to imagine what he would say. Back on the horse. Now we’re really going to have some fun. Something like that. _

And Harrington doesn't  _read_ , doesn't  _care_  about books, and, _yeah_ , Billy _asked_ him to _read_  to him, but he didn't ask him to fucking _remember_ it. 

Harrington  _wouldn't_  have done something like that for no reason.

Harrington's not  _like_  that. 

Maybe Billy doesn't know  _everything_  about him, but he sure as hell knows  _that_. 

A few paragraphs further, and the narrator is trying to decide if he should go home, or stay, or do more drugs.

The character takes forfucking _ever_ trying to work it out.

McInerney wrote,  _Go home. Cut your losses. _ _Stay. Go for it._

There's two more exclamation points drawn in right next to that part.

If Dad knew Billy was using the book he bought him for semi-long-distance gay flirting, he would lose his fucking  _mind_. 

Billy bites down on a grin, but he can  _see_  himself in the mirror, so he _knows_ he's not biting hard  _enough_. 

The note goes into the book, the book goes back into the jacket, the jacket goes back into the closet. 

It's late.

Billy is still sick. 

He needs to go to bed. 

 

 

 

 

It's late at night, early in the morning,  _whatever_ , but Billy's been busy thinking about Harrington, feeling soft and sympathetic and  _sad_  about him, like Billy doesn't have  _enough_  shit to feel bad about, like he  _needs_  Harrington's dumb fake rich kid problems.

He feels _bad_ , so he can't fucking  _sleep_ , so he hears it when the phone starts ringing.

It's too late for anyone to be calling unless somebody's fucking  _dead_. 

Nobody would  _ever_  call to let  _Billy_  know if somebody was dead, because Billy doesn't care enough about anybody to _care_ if they were dead, so the call's  _not_  for him. 

It's not his problem. 

But Billy can't  _sleep_ , so. 

"Who the hell is this?"

But the call  _is_  for him, because it's Harrington, talking in a series of sudden starts and stops, sounding  _way_  more intoxicated than he did when Billy left him alone in his big stupid  _lonely_ house, "I think you wanted for me to say, like. I was a _baby_ , and my mom got me some ice cream, one time, 'cause. I was _sad_ , and it just  _rocked_  my whole fucking  _world_ , and. Now, I need it _all_ the _time_ , but it's not  _like_  that, Hargrove, it's  _not_ , I. I'm just. I'm  _hungry_."

And Billy can understand that.

Billy's hungry, too.

_All_  the fucking time. 

Harrington has  _no idea_.

"I'm hungry, and it  _hurts_ , but then I don't  _drown_." 

Billy  _doesn't_  get that part.

"Go to bed, King Steve." 

"I'm  _in_  bed," says Harrington, but Billy  _knows_  he doesn't have a phone by his bed, so  _that's_  not true. "Why'd you come to my house?' 

"Why did you  _let_  me in your house?" 

"You wanted to come in."

_Everybody_  fucking  _wants_  things.

Billy wants a  _lot_  of things from Harrington.

That doesn't mean Harrington should just fucking  _give_  them to him.

It does  _not_  fucking mean that.

Billy snaps, "And what the hell do _you_ want?" 

" _Grace_." 

Billy rolls his eyes, twines the telephone cord around his fingers, starts, "Our Father, who art in heaven, _hallowed_ be thy name. Thy kingdom _come_ , thy will be _done_ , on _earth_ as it is in _heaven_. Give us. _Uh_ , give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as. As we forgive those who trespass against us, and." 

And Harrington picks it up, finishes, "And lead us _not_ into temptation, but _deliver_ us from _evil_. Amen." 

" _Amen_ ," Billy echoes slowly, tries to hide how he feels like somebody just hit him with their fucking _car_ , how he feels like he's about to fucking _die_ , how he feels like he needs to sleep for a whole goddamn _year_. 

Why does Harrington have to _be_ like that, all the time?

He's too much for Billy. 

_Jesus_.

It's _that_ easy, isn't it?

_That's_ the problem.

The guy is just too fucking  _much_. 

Out in the hallway, a door creaks on its hinges. 

Max's door doesn't creak. 

Billy's doesn't, either, because Billy handled both of their doors back in October, when they first moved in. 

He thought about doing the door on the master bedroom, too, but he didn't, in the end, because he wanted to be able to hear it when Dad was getting out of bed, and. 

And it's the middle of the night, and the bathroom door is pretty close to Dad and Susan's door, but Dad's not stopping outside of it, so.

Dad is out of bed because he wants to talk to Billy. 

"I need to go. Don't call me back." 

"Yeah,  _whatever_ ," and Harrington's voice is still dreamy and faraway and Billy  _shouldn't_  have left his fucking house.

Billy could have something  _good_  with Harrington, but he's never _going_ to have it if he keeps _leaving_.

Harrington's still breathing into the phone, there's all these quiet soft little hitches coming over the line, over and over and _over_. 

Right now, Billy _could_ be in Harrington's house, in Harrington's bed, and they could kiss, and talk, _just_ like this, but better.

It would be  _better_. 

Every time Billy is with Harrington,  _everything_  is  _better_. 

Even when things are bad, it's all still better than it  _should_  be. 

Billy repeats, " _Don't_  call back," and he hangs up the phone, looks up, sees Dad standing in the doorway. 

"Who was that?" 

"Wrong number."

"Do you always stay on the line  _that_  long for a  _wrong fucking number_ , Billy? Who the hell do you think is paying for that?" 

And Billy  _knows_  better, he  _really_  fucking does, but.

Dad's _already_ pissed about Max, so.

How much worse is it  _really_  going to get, right? 

Billy rolls his eyes. 

 

 

 

 

The sun is practically shining a fucking  _spotlight_  over the cut on the bridge of Billy's nose, the bruises that are coming to life on his cheek, how red his eyes are, but Harrington doesn't mention any of it, just greets Billy, "Hey, Hargrove." 

" _Hey_. Look, you  _can't_  call my house at night." Harrington shrugs easily, _too_ easily, like he doesn't fucking _get it_ , so. Billy sighs, "I'm  _telling_  you you did something  _wrong_." 

" _You_  never do anything wrong?" 

And it's a _lie_ , it's _such_ a goddamn lie, they both fucking _know_ it is, but.

Billy shakes his head, anyway. 

The Rolling Stones are playing from inside the house, that same annoying song that Billy still fucking _hates_ , and Harrington looks  _tired_  when he grips onto the doorframe, leans forward on his toes, presses, "You  _never_  mess up?" 

Billy thinks,  _every time I go into this fucking house, I mess up._

Billy thinks,  _I mess you up._

Billy thinks,  _close the door. Don't let me in. You can't trust me._

Jagger sings, _you can't always get what you want._

Billy realizes, "Your parents aren't here."

"You came  _all the way_  over here to tell me shit I  _already fucking knew_?" 

"Well. When did they leave?" 

Harrington smiles, shrugs again, laughs, "You wanna come in?" 

"Are you  _drunk_?"

"Hargrove, if I  _don't_  drink with dinner, my great-grandma just fucking  _knows_ , and she calls and  _yells_  at me? About how,  _whatever_. She _didn't_ leave the old country _just_ so I could _disrespect the motherland_ , I mean, I don't  _know_ , it never really makes  _sense_ , but she's  _seventy-seven years old_ , so. She's not  _supposed_  to yell. She might  _die_."

" _You_  might die. You're going to develop a  _problem_." 

" _Man_ , I got _millions_  of problems. One more is cool, too. Listen, I'm _not_ gonna stand out here like an _asshole_ all day, okay, so. Just come _in_ , if you're coming in."

The front door is _still_ open, but Harrington's walking away like he doesn't care, and Billy turns on the doorstep, takes a quick look around.  

The sun hasn't set yet, but he  _knows_ it's getting late.

Billy has to go home. 

Jagger sings, _but if you try sometimes, you might find, you get what you need_. 

Billy _hates_ this fucking song _so_   _much_.  

 

 

 

 

"So, _when_ did your parents leave?" 

"Saturday." 

" _No_ , I said, when did they  _leave_?" 

Harrington snaps, cold, sharp,  _bored_ , "Yeah, _asshole_ , I fucking  _heard_  you. They left  _Saturday_." 

Billy reminds him, "They _came home_ on Saturday." 

And if Harrington was  _wrong_ , he would roll his eyes, but he would still give in and say,  _oh. Right, yeah, you're right. They left on Sunday. They left this morning. You're right, Billy. It can't have been Saturday._

Harrington sets a plate down in front of Billy, crosses around the table, falls into his seat. 

He raises his eyebrows, shoves a bite of pasta into his mouth, asks around his fork, " _And_?" 

Oh. 

Okay.

_Jesus_. 

Billy drinks some wine,  _really_  wants to spit it out, forces himself to swallow before he demands, "Okay,  _no_ , what the  _fuck_  was  _that_?" 

"Marsala, they make it in Sicily." Billy does not give a  _shit_  where it's  _made_ , it's  _fucking_  disgusting. "I think maybe it's kinda only really for cooking." 

"If it's for  _cooking_ , why the fuck did you  _pour it into a glass_  and  _give_  it to me?" 

Harrington rolls his eyes, reaches across the table, knocks back  _all_  of Billy's wine.

"Okay, you want red or white?" 

Billy just  _stares_  at him.

How the fuck is  _Billy_  supposed to know  _anything_  about  _wine_?

_Jesus_ , how does  _Harrington_  know anything about wine?

Harrington's already walking away, but he calls back over his shoulder, " _Nevermind_ , Hargrove! I got you!" 

 

 

 

 

Billy's drunk.

He's drunk, on Harrington's bedroom floor, with his back pressed up against the mattress, with Harrington across from him, leaning against the wall under the window, and.

"Remember when you kissed me?" 

Billy thinks,  _yes._

Billy thinks,  _if you remember, I have to fucking kill you._

Billy thinks,  _shut the fuck up._

Billy doesn't say anything. 

Harrington breathes, "I just.  _Thanks_. For that. I was feeling pretty down, about Nancy, you know, and. You were  _real_  nice about it, man, and I _know_ that's not in your nature, so. Thank you."

_Oh_.

Oh,  _New Year's_.

New Year's, when Harrington kept crawling _right_ into Billy's arms, kept _touching_ him, kept _talking_ to him in that low sweet slow voice he's got when he's been drinking for hours? 

Yeah, no, that's  _fine_. 

That's not  _Billy's_  fault.

_Anybody_  would have done what he did, if they had been there, if it had happened to them. 

Maybe nobody _treats_ him like it, but Billy's only fucking _human_.

_Still_ , though.

"Don't fucking  _tell_  anybody about that shit." 

Harrington grins, "Yeah,  _sorry_ , man, it's too late; I already told  _all_  my friends."

The joke is that Harrington doesn't _have_ any friends. 

Billy _gets_ it. 

It's a joke he might have made himself, but it feels _wrong_ to let Harrington say it, like he thinks it's true.

It is true, but.

He shouldn't _know_ that it is.

"You. You fucking  _have_  friends, Harrington."

" _Yeah_? I was just _kidding_ ," and Harrington is standing up, pushing his hair back, sighing. "Look, it's  _really_  late,  _so_..." 

Yeah, it  _is_  pretty late.

So,  _what_?

Why should Billy  _care_?

Billy  _knows_  Harrington's home alone. 

Billy can do whatever the fuck he  _wants_ , and Harrington  _can't_  stop him, and maybe Harrington doesn't _know_ that, doesn't  _remember_  that, but  _Billy_  sure as hell knows, because Billy  _remembers_  kissing Harrington breathless, and he could do it again,  _right_  here,  _right_  now. 

"You want me to leave?" 

Harrington opens his mouth, closes it, shrugs as he sits down on his bed.

"You know, when you were sick, I, uh. Kinda flipped out? Thought maybe I. I don't know. Gave you  _mono_ , or something." 

Billy snorts. "Yeah,  _no_." 

"I mean, you weren't sick _long enough_ for mono, but, I was  _real_  scared. I don't think anybody fucking _dies_  from mono, but, like. It was gonna be  _embarrassing_  when you figured out  _I_  gave it to you, I kept thinking, so..." 

"Oh, _yeah_ , pretty boy? You were thinking about me  _that_  much?" 

Harrington rolls his eyes. "Don't be  _gross_."

" _You_  convinced yourself you  _gave me an infectious disease_ , and  _I'm_ the one who's gross?" 

Harrington picks up the last of the wine from the floor, empties the glass, wonders, "Wanna have a sleepover?" 

_No_.

"Okay." 

" _Seriously_ , Hargrove." Harrington gives him a stupid sleepy smile, and it's the _single_ most endearing thing Billy has  _ever_  seen, in his  _entire_  life.  _God_ , he fucking  _hates_  Harrington. He's _such_ an asshole. "Thanks for looking after me, all the time." 

Billy  _hasn't_  been doing that. 

That's not his fucking  _job_.

He's not looking after Harrington.

He's  _not_.

  

 

 

 

Harrington doesn't offer him the guest room, but, then. 

Billy doesn't _ask_ for it, either, so. 

 

 

 

 

According to the clock on Harrington's nightstand, it's 2:21.

Billy fell asleep earlier, but he's back up, now, with Harrington curled up next to him, mumbling something that makes no sense to Billy.

Billy turns his head against Harrington's pillow, gets as good of a look at Harrington's face as he can, in the dark, like this. 

It's been _forever_ since Byers hit him, so.

His face is perfect, again. 

Harrington is untainted and beautiful and sleeping in bed with Billy, like he feels _safe_ sleeping with Billy, even though Billy is somebody who shouldn't be allowed to get _this_ close to something _so_ nice.

They shouldn't even be in the same room. 

They shouldn't even be in the same fucking  _universe_. 

But, it's not like Billy's going to  _leave_.

He's  _never_  going to leave. 

Not now that he's  _this_  close to getting what he wants.

This close to getting what he fucking  _needs_. 

_Everybody_ needs _something_.

Some people need to  _drink_ , right? 

The one time Billy met Max's dad, the guy was  _blitzed_ , and he said stepbrother or not, he  _wasn't_  about to let Max leave with someone who hated the Irish, even though Billy  _didn't_  hate the Irish, because he didn't fucking  _know_  enough Irish people to  _have_  a goddamn opinion on them, and he started throwing the word  _racist_  around, like the three of them  _weren't_  the only white people in a ten mile radius, like he fucking  _wanted_ to get them all stabbed, so Billy sat down, drank some Guinness, and Max's dad grabbed his arm, dropped his voice down until it was a quiet conspiratorial slurred mess of dropped Rs and too-heavy vowels,  _she tell you I was a drinker? Susie? She did, didn't she? She's a liar, that girl. I'm no drunk. Swear on Max, I'm not, hand to God._

But Billy didn't fucking  _care_  if Max's dad was an alcoholic, he just wanted to get Max home before curfew so his  _own_  dad wouldn't fucking  _kill_  him, and Max's dad was  _really_  getting in his way, but then he said,  _one drink won't hurt you, son. Who's getting hurt 'cause you're having a good time?_  
  
And it  _sounded_  like a trick question, so Billy didn't answer, but Max's dad grinned, said,  _you're just hurting you if you don't have a drink. Why should you be hurting and no one else?_

_That_  sounded like a trick,  _too_ , coming from a guy who had just greeted him as _the infamous Billy_. 

If some older guy had hurt  _Billy_  when  _he_  was a little kid, he wouldn't have told his dad, but he sure as _shit_ would've told his  _mom_ , and she would've gone  _crazy_  over it. 

God knows Max rarely tells Susan about all the crazy shit Billy does, but Billy thought she would've told her  _dad_ , except he wasn't acting like somebody who hated Billy, so Billy didn't know what the  _fuck_  was going  _on_ , and then he let go of Billy, said,  _alright, you fuck off_ , and then he hugged Max, held her up against his hip even though she was almost thirteen and was probably too big for that kind of thing, said,  _I miss you when you're not here with me, girl_ , and Max said,  _okay, Dad, come on, God, don't embarrass me in front of Billy._

And Billy hadn't wanted to park in Max's dad's shitty neighborhood, so they had to walk for a while to get back to the Camaro, and Max was quiet, until she stopped walking and went,  _please don't tell my mom, okay? She thinks he's sober, again_. Billy didn't get it, and Max looked  _so_  fucking embarrassed when she admitted,  _he is a drunk, okay? But it's Saint Patricks Day, and he's really not like that all the time, I swear, and. And he's my dad, Billy._

But Billy didn't fucking  _care_.

So Max's dad sucked?

So,  _what_?

_All_  dads suck, and Billy  _knew_  that was true, because they got back after curfew, and Dad said Billy smelled like booze, and Max looked scared, like she thought Billy was going to sell her out, and,  _Jesus_ , he fucking  _should_  have, but Billy lied,  _yeah, it's a goddamn holiday. I had a couple drinks_ , and then Dad reminded Billy about respect, and then he reminded him about responsibility, and then he broke Billy's wrist.

And then Max got to keep seeing her dad, every other weekend, until they moved to Hawkins, and thinking about it now, Billy can't  _believe_  he did something  _that_   _nice_ for Max, for some bitch who fucking  _hates_  him.

But that night was important, because it was the first time, maybe the _only_ fucking time, that Billy ever met anyone who drank because they  _had_  to, and he remembers that he didn't  _believe_  it, before that, that some people just really  _needed_  to drink. 

Because Billy  _likes_  drinking, but he doesn't  _need_  to do it. 

Billy  _likes_  Harrington, and sometimes, he really feels like he fucking  _needs_  him, needs him like he needs to  _breathe_ , like he needs to _break_ things, like he  _needs_  to get out of Hawkins and get his ass back home before he fucking  _dies_  out here. 

Harrington moans, weakly, in his sleep, only  _just_  loud enough to hit Billy's ears, " _Please_ , no.  _Fuck_ , Jesus,  _please_."

As gently as he can, as gently as he knows how to be, which  _isn't_  very gently at all, it's not, it's fucking  _not_ , but Billy's fucking  _trying_  when he whispers, "You're  _dreaming_ , baby."

And Billy sort of thinks he's being too quiet for Harrington to  _really_  hear him, but somehow, Harrington settles down, anyway, presses his face in against Billy's neck, blows a few hot heavy breaths against Billy's skin.

Harrington, drunk off his ass on New Year's Eve, was smiling like it was a  _joke_  when he asked Billy to _protect_ him, and Billy didn't  _get_   _it_ , then, why it made him feel so _strange_ , but.

He gets it  _now_. 

Billy's never  _had_  anything worth protecting. 

It's kind of nice, though.

He _likes_ it.

He could get used to it.

 

 

 

 

The sky outside of Harrington's window is still pretty dark.

It's only  _just_  starting to turn pink and purple and something that's almost like gold. 

There's a low buzz of music playing somewhere in the house, somewhere that's not here.

Harrington's not in here, either, and Harrington's got a nice enough bed, but Billy doesn't have a lot of interest in staying in it all by himself, so he gets up, heads downstairs, calls, "Buenos dias!" 

"Morning." Harrington looks like he's been up for hours, _sounds_ like it, too, when he yawns, "You sleep okay?"

Billy thinks,  _I could be so good to you._

Billy thinks,  _I could be good for you._

Billy thinks, _ask me to do it. Ask me to be like that. I'll say yes._

Billy asks, "You know we have school today, right?" 

"Yeah, uh. I'm not going."

"Why?" 

"Just not feeling it, man." Harrington turns his head, a little, watches Billy as he crosses the room, then adds, "I think I'm dropping out, actually." 

"Oh," says Billy, who is _never_ dropping out of school, because he's fucking _good_ at school, because school is fucking _easy_ , because _he_ doesn't have the fucking _luxury_ of uselessly hanging around some huge house in the middle of nowhere for the rest of his life. "Your parents know about that?"

When Harrington smiles, it's that dark arrogant _brutal_ King Steve smile, that _yeah, it's me, don't cream your pants_ smile, that _I don't know what you don't understand about what I just said_ smile, that  _I taste like the goddamn American dream_ smile.

It _is_ that smile, but it's also _not_ , because this _isn't_ King Steve, this is _just_ Steve Harrington, saying, " _Nobody_ knows except you."

"Yeah? What about that kid? Dustin?" 

Harrington hums, "It's _all_ you, Hargrove."

Harrington is cooking scrambled eggs, is making toast, is gnawing on the frosted edge of a Pop-Tart.

His hair is adding about an extra three and a half inches of height to him, there's dark circles under his eyes, he's wearing a blue-striped sock on  _one_  foot, but  _not_  the other one.

He looks  _ridiculous_.

It doesn't matter.

Billy  _still_  wants to sink his fucking  _teeth_  into him, he doesn't care  _where_ , he just needs  _more_  than he already has.

He needs  _everything_. 

"You know you talk in your sleep?"

Harrington raises his eyebrows. "So?"

Billy pushes, " _So_ , what did you dream about?"

Harrington drops his frying pan into the sink, lights a cigarette against the flames right before he turns the stove off, turns to do something to the toaster. 

Billy gets in close, closer than they've been for a little while, because it's a  _different_  kind of close if they're not drunk, if they're not in bed, if it's bright out.

Harrington fit over Billy's back  _perfectly_  on New Year's Eve.

_Sure_ , it was uncomfortable at first, but it was  _nice_ , and he  _shouldn't_  have, but Billy felt  _safe_ , like that.

He's probably not making Harrington feel very safe.

He can't make himself care enough about that to stop. 

Harrington turns in Billy's arms, licks his lips as he stares into Billy's eyes, answers, "Monsters."

"Oh,  _yeah_ , King Steve?" And Billy fucking  _hates_ it, but here he is again, in this place where his voice won't come out sounding like it belongs to him. It's too playful, light,  _sickening_ , when he teases, "And what universe are they in?" 

And Harrington's whole universe thing?

Okay, it's a  _lot_  like a stupid little kid thing.

_The floor is made out of lava, so we have to jump on the furniture._

_I spy something that starts with the letter S, and it's not scary like everything else in my life, so let's think about that, instead._

_Let's close our eyes and pretend that everything is different, because we're in another place, and nothing has to hurt as long as we're here._

_Jesus_ , it's fucking  _adorable_.

But it's not  _real_.

Billy  _knows_  it's not real, he knows that there's exactly  _one_  world, and it's  _this_  one, and he thought  _Harrington_  understood that,  _too_ , but, for the first time, it seems like maybe Harrington  _doesn't_ understand.

And Billy's heartbeat is speeding up, his muscles are going tense, his hands are still planted against the edge of the counter, but he can  _see_  them, there, and they're fucking  _shaking_.

He's scared.

Billy  _shouldn't_  be scared, because Dad's not here,  _no one_ is here except _Harrington_ , and Harrington couldn't fucking hurt Billy if he  _wanted_  to.

But that doesn't matter.

Billy is fucking  _scared_  when Harrington finally answers him, soft and scared and serious, " _This_   _one_."

 

 

 

 

They skip school.

Harrington buys them both a milkshake, and Harrington doesn't finish his, but he smiles a lot, makes a few dumb jokes, seems like he's having fun.

He offers to pay for the movies, if Billy wants to go.

Billy  _doesn't_  want to go.

His hands aren't shaking anymore, but he has  _lots_ of brand new thoughts about Harrington pushing through his head, and they just keep getting _worse_.

He wants to _hit_ somebody, and he knows _exactly_ who he wants to fucking hit, so.

Before he can actually _do_ it, he drives them back to Harrington's house, doesn't park, just waits for Harrington to get out. 

Like he  _doesn't_  see Billy basically _every day_ , like he's going to _miss_ him, Harrington's _real_ slow and sulky and weird about getting out of the car, and Billy doesn't know _why_ , because there's only _one_ person here who deserves to be in an awful mood, and it's _Billy_.

_Harrington_ isn't the one who just wasted two months of his life thinking he was chasing after something that was fucking  _perfect_ , and just found out that the reason nobody else wanted it  _first_ , is because it's a completely fucking crazy  _mess_ , so.

Harrington checks his hair in Billy's rearview mirror, bites his lip, starts, "Listen, if you didn't  _want_  to go _—_ "

"You're mostly asleep," Billy informs him. He sounds bored, detached,  _annoyed_. He can  _hear_  it. He can't make it  _stop_ , but he still  _knows_  he can make it  _worse_. Fuck, he _needs_ Harrington to fuck off before Billy just makes it  _worse_. "You should go to bed."

Harrington is a lot less angelic understanding Babysitter of the Year, is a lot more vicious  _villainous_  Keg King Steve when he speaks again, nice and slow, sounding almost  _angry_ , "You don't _have_  to hang out with me." 

" _Rad_. Get the  _fuck_  out."

Harrington gets out of Billy's car, and Billy looks down at the radio dial, tries to find something good to listen to.  

The passenger side door closes, but Harrington's front door doesn't, so Billy looks up to see if Harrington forgot his keys in the car, or something, but. 

Harrington's not standing by his door.

He's not by the car, and he's not by the house, because he's all the way down the street, just about to turn around a corner.

Billy shouts, "Hey!  _Harrington_!" 

But Harrington keeps going, and.

And then he's just  _gone_.

 

 

 

 

It's annoying that Harrington just fucking  _walked away_  from him, just like it's  _annoying_  that Harrington let Billy waste his time taking him home if he didn't actually  _want_  to go home, just like it's  _annoying_  that Harrington sounded  _so_  fucking angry when he left. 

What the fuck gives him the right to be  _angry_  at  _Billy_? 

Who the  _fuck_  does Harrington think he fucking  _is_?

What makes him  _so_ fucking  _special_?

 

 

 

 

"Hi," Max greets him, getting into Billy's car, shutting the door, buckling her seat belt. "You're _really_ popular today."

Billy rolls his eyes, pulls out of the middle school parking lot, sneers, "I'm popular  _every day_ , Maxine." 

"Okay, but about  _five_  different girls asked if you were  _really my brother_ , today." 

"And that's when you told them I'm sure as hell  _not_  your brother,  _right_?"

" _Right_ ," Max smiles, quick and sarcastic and  _barely_  fucking existent, shuts her mouth, stares out the window like there's anything _interesting_ going on, out there. 

Billy's not typically in the business of letting anything go, but he's fucking  _tired_.

Maybe he's still a little bit sick. 

But, _still_.

He can't let the kid get  _too_  comfortable.

He'll have to make sure to try harder with her, tomorrow.

Make her cry, or something.

Maybe before school?

Maybe  _not_ , though.

He would have to get up  _early_  for that shit. 

 

 

 

 

Billy's only been lifting weights for nine minutes when he starts feeling like he's about to pass out.

It's  _pathetic_.

He's  _definitely_  still sick.

He hesitates for about a half a second, in the shower, before he rolls his eyes and gets himself off thinking about Harrington squirming around in his lap on New Year's Eve. 

_Sure_ , Billy's pissed off about Harrington, but he's still got _eyes_ , and no matter _what_ kind of crazy he's turning out to be, Harrington is  _still_ a sweet piece of ass, and Billy has put in a  _lot_  of work on him, so.

He can think about Harrington however the fuck he  _wants_. 

_God_ , Billy feels good. 

He feels like  _himself_. 

 

 

 

 

Billy's done getting dressed, he's opening up a new pack of Marlboros, and Susan's knocking on his door. 

It  _has_  to be Susan, because, as a general rule, Dad just  _doesn't_  knock, and Max won't _ever_ talk to Billy unless she _has_ to.

It's almost funny that  _Max_  knows exactly who Billy is, and Susan  _still_  doesn't.

Sometimes, it _seems_ like she does, but.

Not  _really_.

Maybe she thinks he's just  _troubled_ , or something.

Sad about his mom, maybe?

Well,  _shit_ , yeah, Billy  _misses_  his mother.

He  _loved_  his mother, okay?

He  _did_ , but.

_Jesus_.

Nobody's  _sad_  for  _this_   _long_.

Dad's not home yet, so Billy  _knows_  he can get away with it.

He's not angry, or stressed, or  _anything_ , really.

Fine, he's  _still_ annoyed about Harrington, but orgasms work  _wonders_  for annoyance, so that's dying down.

He's  _mostly_  okay. 

The  _only_  fucking reason he's acting like this is because he  _knows_  Susan's going to let him.

It's _her_  fault. 

Billy bangs a fist down against his door, hears a shocked gasp come from the other side, grins as he shouts, "Jesus  _Christ_ , Susan, I am fucking  _busy_!" 

 

 

 

 

"So, kids! How was school?"

_Kids_.

Billy fucking  _hates_ that shit.

If Susan _really_ thinks of Billy as a kid, why the _hell_ does she think he's someone who can be held responsible for her daughter?

How does that shit make _any_ sense?

Either he's a kid, and Susan gets to pretend that she doesn't know Dad treats him like shit, but she _does_ have to just hire a fucking babysitter like a _normal_ person, or he's _not_ a kid, he _can_ be held responsible for Max, but then he _shouldn't_ be someone who gets beaten up by her husband on the regular for _no_ fucking reason, and she should fucking _say_ something about it, already. 

"Uh,  _okay_ , I guess," Max shrugs, when Billy doesn't say anything first. "My friend Dustin's mom says he can get a pet snake, so we were all helping him pick what breed he wants." 

_Jesus_.

Billy's never met anybody,  _ever_ , in his  _life_ , who deserved a pet snake  _less_  than that tiny little freak. 

"Dustin's  _mom_?" 

It takes Max a second to understand the question, but Billy can tell when she does, because she narrows her eyes, tilts her chin up defiantly, like she thinks that's  _smart_ , like she's  _still_ not worried about getting hurt, like Billy's never fucking  _taught_  her _anything_ , when she answers, " _Yeah_ , Neil. His dad's not around, anymore,  _so_..."

"Oh, _no_ ," Susan replies, softly, like Dustin is fucking  _here_  to care that _she_ cares. "That poor boy." 

_Okay_.

No, yeah,  _wow_ , Billy's actually a  _lot_  angrier than he thought, tonight. 

He's been sitting here for twenty minutes, even though he's not eating, because he finished eating in about four minutes flat, but Dad would've called him rude for trying to leave the table that quickly. 

But it's been  _twenty fucking minutes_.

"Dinner was great, Susan, thank you. Can I be excused?"

"Of course _—_ "

" _No_. You go to school today, Billy?" 

"Yes, sir," Billy lies. He keeps his eyes on his hands. They're not shaking.  _That's_  new. "I go to school  _every_  day." 

"That's interesting. Because they called me at work, today, saying you weren't there." 

Teachers fuck up when they're taking attendance  _all the fucking time_. 

Dad  _knows_  that. 

"Okay? That's weird; I don't know anything about that."

"I'm sure you don't. Because you weren't at school." 

Even if Billy  _had_  gone to school today, even if it really  _was_  just somebody else's mistake, Dad would  _still_  be pissed, and that means that what's about to happen, now? 

_Yeah_ , it would've happened no matter  _what_ , so. 

Billy would rather have a mostly-good time out on a date, than waste his whole goddamn day pretending he's  _not_  as smart as he really is,  _pretending_  he's someone who  _actually_  gives a shit about Hawkins' basketball team,  _pretending_  to listen when Nancy Wheeler bullshits their whole English class about how Capote's  _Breakfast At Tiffany's_  is  _just_  as interesting as Capote's  _In Cold Blood_.

" _Yeah_ , Dad. You  _caught_ me. I  _wasn't_  at school."

Billy's only missed school here in Hawkins a few times. 

One time, he had a  _hell_  of a bruise on his face, and he didn't think anyone was going to believe that he fell down some stairs, so he just stayed home.

Some secretary, from school, called to talk to Dad about it, but she called at the house, right when Billy was coming back from picking Max up, around five.

It's just after six, and Billy is done with dinner, and his hands aren't shaking, but that doesn't mean jack _shit_. 

Well, it means Billy's not scared, but he already knew that. 

_No_ , Billy's not _scared_ , because Billy is fucking _infuriated_.

He's been _missing_ his anger, but it's _back_ now, it's building up, it's _pounding_ through his body, it wants to get the fuck  _out_.

Jesus, Susan is  _really_  cute, sometimes.

_What_  time was it when she knocked on his door, again? 

Billy looks into Susan's eyes, smiles at her, but he's pretty sure it's obvious that he's talking to _Dad_ when he goes, "I'm sorry they bothered you at work. That must've been _real_ annoying." 

Dad says, flatly, "Thank Susan for making dinner." 

Billy thinks,  _I just fucking did, you fucking asshole. You heard me do it. That's what made you remember that I fucking exist._

Billy says, "Thank you, Susan," and he stands up before Dad can tell him to, because he's  _tired_  of acting like they're  _not_  playing the same game, like they're not just in on a joke that Max and Susan aren't supposed to know about.

_Billy_  hasn't ever told them about it, _has_ he?

If they're  _finally_  starting to understand what's going on around here, it's not  _Billy's_  fault.

If  _Dad's_  not good at this game anymore, that's _his_ problem.

If he's not _good_ at it anymore,  _maybe_  it's time for him to quit this game and start playing a new one.

Billy walks around the table, rests a hand on the back of Susan's chair, asks Dad, "Look, can we just do this in my room? It's  _twenty-four_   _degrees_  outside." 

 

 

 

 

It's quiet in Billy's room, because Dad's not talking to him. 

He usually likes to remind Billy about being  _respectful_ , being  _responsible_ , about being a good _brother_  and a good _son_  and a good  _person_.

And that always really  _gets_  to Billy, because  _Dad_ doesn't get to tell  _Billy_ about being a good person. 

Not when Dad's such a  _bad_  person.

He doesn't  _get_  to do that. 

But Dad's quiet tonight, so Billy has to remind  _himself_.

It's  _hard_  to feel bad, most of the time, when Dad is beating the shit out of him and calling it  _discipline_. 

He _doesn't_ feel bad tonight.

He doesn't feel respectful, or responsible _,_  or like he  _ever_  wants to be described as a good  _anything_ , by  _anyone_.

He feels like he should have fucking  _killed_  Max,  _and_  Dad,  _and_  Susan,  _years ago_ , and just kept living his life the way he fucking  _wanted_  to, the way he fucking  _deserves_  to.

Billy doesn't fucking deserve  _this_. 

He doesn't  _deserve_  it, but even if he  _did_ , God is supposed to forgive everybody, even _sinners_ and _heathens_ and _faggots_.

Billy's all  _three_ , so.

Where the fuck is  _his_  forgiveness? 

Is he supposed to fucking  _beg_  for it? 

Billy would rather _burn in hell_ than ever have to fucking _beg_ for something he's just supposed to _get_. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and he's laid out on his bedroom floor, and his wristwatch says it's 10:49. 

He walks down the hall, takes a handful of aspirin, rinses off all the blood he can get to without getting in the shower. 

It's 11:11. 

He didn't  _think_  it was eleven, already.

If Billy's moving  _that_  much slower than he thinks he is, he should probably go to bed.

He's got to go to school, tomorrow. 

 

 

 

 

Billy wakes up, and his watch says it's 2:57, and a car is screeching to a stop out on the street, in front of the house.

It's _not_ Billy's problem, but it's giving him a weird feeling, so. 

He gets out of bed. 

 

 

 

 

Billy said not to call the house at night, and Harrington didn't.

He  _didn't_  call, but it's three in the morning, and Harrington's outside Billy's house, kicking back on the gravel that makes up Old Cherry Road, wearing socks, sweatpants, his gym class T-shirt.

Billy  _doesn't_  want to know why he's here, because it's  _not_  his fucking business.

_Harrington's_  not Billy's fucking business, and.

He _can't_ fucking  _be here_.

But he  _is_  here, and he's asking, "Can you tell me a story?"

What kind of  _question_  is that?

_Yeah_ , of course Billy  _can_ , but he fucking  _won't_. 

"I'll take you home," Billy decides. 

He felt angry, before, and that was _good_.

He hasn't felt like himself since he started going after Harrington.

He felt good earlier tonight, but he's losing his grip on that, again.

He feels like he did waking up in Harrington's bed, like he did on that freezing cold night parked in Harrington's car in Illinois, like he did watching Harrington eat ice cream at seven in the morning like a fucking  _freak_. 

Billy thought he was  _better_ , but it's three in the goddamn morning, and he feels like he's  _starving_ , again, all because Harrington's here, knocking the breath right out of him without even fucking _trying_.

Harrington is such a fucking  _problem_.

Billy  _forgot_  that, again, but he  _can't_  keep doing that.

" _No_ , Hargrove, I don't  _want_  that," Harrington protests. "I want _—_ "

"I don't care." 

" _I_ read for _you_."

_Jesus_ , does he want to say that shit a little  _louder_?

Maybe Dad's _not_ up yet, maybe he'll fucking _like_ hearing Harrington talk about how fucking _gay_ Billy is, maybe that'll be _great_. 

Besides, Billy doesn't fucking _owe_ Harrington for that.

_Yeah_ , Billy asked Harrington to read to him, but if Harrington had wanted something in _return_ , he should have _said_ _so_.

That's what _Billy_ does, when he wants something in exchange for something else.

He lays it all out first, so it's _fair_.

_Most_ _people_ do that.

Fucking _sane_ _people_ do that.

But Harrington is Harrington, and Harrington is a fucking _psycho_.

"So _what_?"

"You  _never_  do what I want."

If Harrington doesn't  _want_  to go home,  _fine_ , whatever,  _fuck_  him. 

_Billy_ is going back to bed.

That's what  _he's_  doing.

Chances are, this is just a fucking dream, _anyway_.

It's a really  _fucked-up_  dream, a pain-induced dream from  _hell_ , but it's still a fucking  _dream_ , so Billy's going back the fuck to  _sleep_ , and when he wakes up, he's digging out that dreamcatcher Max gave him for Christmas.

He'll see if it really works, because he's  _not_  doing this again.

He's  _tired_  of this shit.

It's  _exhausting_ , and it's not fucking  _safe_ , and what the fuck does Billy  _get_  out of it?

_Nothing_ , right?

Harrington's  _pretty_ , and he kisses Billy sometimes, and  _that's_  nice, but it's basically  _nothing_ , so what's the fucking  _point_?

_Why_  is Billy  _still_  wasting his time on him? 

He's not. 

He's  _done_.

He's  _fucking_  done.

And Billy's halfway across the lawn, so he  _almost_  doesn't catch it, and he wishes he  _didn't_ , Billy fucking  _wishes_  he could just go back to bed and pretend that this isn't happening, but Harrington's voice just  _breaks_ , except it doesn't  _sound_  like it's just his voice, it fucking  _sounds_  like something deep inside of Harrington is just giving up the ghost, like his fucking  _heart_  is stopping, when he breathes out, " _Nobody_  does what I want. I don't get _anything_ I want."

Billy thinks,  _that sounds like a problem_.  

Billy thinks,  _but it's not my problem_.

Billy thinks,  _I don't owe you anything. You're not mine. You're not my fucking problem_. 

Billy says, "Let me take you home."

"I don't  _got_ a fucking home," Harrington slurs. He's _drunk_ , again. Why did it take Billy  _this_ _long_  to realize it? "I don't fucking have  _anything_."

And maybe that's true, but Billy  _doesn't_  think so.

Maybe this is a joke. 

Maybe Harrington's just acting, again.

But.

He might  _not_  be.

"Oh, _Jesus_ , just  _settle down_ ," Billy sighs, heads back out onto the street, grabs Harrington by the shoulders. " _Harrington_? Look at me.  _Hey_ ," and Harrington looks up, and his lips have been bitten raw, they're wine-red, and just  _thinking_ about Harrington's mouth tends to get Billy pretty hot, but right now, _looking_ at it is making him feel  _sick_.

Respect and responsibility is  _still_  bullshit.

There's  _no_  goddamn reason  _Billy_  should have to be respectful and responsible if nobody  _else_  is ever going to be.

_That's_  not fair.

He's  _not_  doing it.

Nobody can fucking  _make_  Billy do that,  _not_   _even Dad_ , but somebody had a kid, and didn't take very good care of it, so it's in the street outside of Billy's house in the middle of the night, just fucking  _asking_ to get run over, or kidnapped, or killed by Billy's psychotic father, and  _somebody_  should fucking care about that, somebody should fucking  _be here_  and they should  _care_ , but it shouldn't have to be  _Billy_.

He  _likes_  Harrington,  _fine_ , he  _really_  fucking likes him, but the guy is just  _not_  Billy's problem.

Kind of like how _Billy's_ not  _Harrington's_  problem.

Just like Max, and Sinclair, and Dustin, and whoever the  _fuck_  else, Billy  _isn't_  Harrington's problem, but Harrington  _still_  keeps letting him into his house, and helping him out, and putting him to bed when Billy can't do it himself.

Just because Billy doesn't _ask_ for it doesn't mean Harrington's  _not_  doing right by him, even though he  _doesn't_   _have to_.

Harrington looks away from Billy, down the street, and he's trembling, maybe because it's cold, maybe because he's upset, or whatever the fuck he is.

Billy doesn't know.

He doesn't  _care_.

He has his  _own_  problems.

He doesn't need  _Harrington's_  problems.

Harrington tells him, hushed, like it's a secret he's not sure he can trust Billy to keep, "My _throat_ hurts." 

Yeah.

Billy's sure it does.

"Okay. Okay, I'm taking you home." 

 

 

 

 

There's something _wrong_ with Harrington. 

His parents were home for less than a day before they checked out, again.

Is it because they know how fucked up he is?

Is Harrington that kind of crazy where he throws things, and hits people, and _screams_ all the time?

A _lot_ about him would make sense, if that's the truth, because.

_Shit_ , Billy wouldn't want to be around him, _either_. 

But Harrington is quiet, in the passenger seat of his BMW, has his face pressed up against the window, with his eyes still open. 

And that's _another_ thing.

This motherfucker doesn't fucking _sleep_.

That means his body just doesn't fucking _work_ the right way.

He _should_ be asleep, and he's not, so something is just _not working_.

He should probably to go to a hospital.

Billy doesn't know where one _is_ , but he could always just drop him off outside the police station, or.

Or at Tommy's house, or. 

Fucking _anywhere_.

He says, to keep Harrington awake, to keep him talking, to keep him from losing what's left of his stupid little mind, "You're _really_ gonna let Dustin get a pet snake?"

"He really wants one. He doesn't. He doesn't like being _alone_ , and. It's not like he's _my_ kid, I can't _let_ him do _shit_."

Billy sighs, " _Okay_ , well, it seems short-sighted."

" _Sorry_ ," Harrington sighs back.

It sounds like a lie and a half.

Billy doesn't call him on it. 

 

 

 

 

And then they're at Harrington's, where the front door is wide open, just _waiting_ for them to walk in.

Most of the lights are off, that Rolling Stones song is playing over and over and over, and Billy doesn't know where the fuck it's _coming_ from, but.

It's not really a priority.

He locks the front door, keeps a hand wrapped tight around Harrington's wrist, pulls him along from room to room until he's sure that no one is in the house except for them. 

Yeah, no one broke _in_ , so.

It looks like Harrington just broke _out_. 

He finds the stereo upstairs, in a room that's apparently some kind of an office.

The door's been locked every other time Billy's been to Harrington's house, but it's not locked tonight, so Billy drags Harrington in with him, turns off the music right when the choir's starting up again, sounding like a group of angels that got locked up in _hell_ to suffer for fucking  _eternity_ , and. 

Harrington's been on the other side of the room, but he comes back to Billy, now, with a bottle of bourbon that looks like it's worth more than Billy's car, so.  

Billy takes the bottle, locks the cabinet Harrington pulled it out of, sighs, "Come on, pretty boy. It's bedtime." 

 

 

 

 

Harrington being a needy little bitch  _still_  isn't Billy's problem, but Billy _knows_ that box with all of Harrington's dumb baby stuff in it is still in that room Harrington called  _the den_ , and there's still going to be a big  _S_  carved into it, and it's  _still_  going to be messy and childish and depressing as all shit. 

He _doesn't_ want to take Harrington in there with him, but not as much as he _doesn't_ want to have to go hunting through the whole fucking neighborhood if Harrington takes off again, so. 

Harrington behaves in the den, just sits himself down at the piano, plays a few keys, lets Billy go through his toys and trophies and books, again. 

_Where The Wild Things Are_ feels ominously heavy in his hands, but Billy ignores it, because he's tired, he's hurt, he's got to go to school in the morning. 

Billy needs Harrington to go the fuck to sleep so that he can go back home. 

That's _it_. 

Nobody would expect Billy to put in any more effort than _that_ , right? 

He's being  _responsible_ , even though he _doesn't_ have to.

That should _count_ for something. 

It should count for a fucking _lot_. 

 

 

 

 

Harrington's sitting sideways on the top step of his staircase.

He's brushing his teeth, right there, like some kind of fucked-up halfway-feral child, and he leans over, spits down into a vase of flowers that's on the landing downstairs, glances up at Billy, goes, "Did I. Coming by your house, like that, did I _scare_ you?" 

Billy shrugs. " _I_ come by _your_ house all the time." 

"I just. I _don't_ wanna scare you, man. I, um. I _really like_ you, Hargrove."

Harrington's eyes are unfocused, again. 

He's _not_ going to remember, _again_. 

Billy could shove him down the fucking stairs, or he could shove his dick down Harrington's throat, or he could beat Harrington with that baseball bat he's got, and chances are good that this rich kid asshole just won't  _remember_. 

Billy lies, "I like you, too. You have to go to bed now, though. Come on." 

Harrington lets Billy tug him up and off of the stairs, but he tenses in Billy's arms, steps back, almost steps right back out onto _nothing_ , so.

Billy has to grab him again, swears, " _Jesus_! You _stupid_  fucker, what is _wrong_ with you?!" 

"You _don't_ like me. I know you _used_ to, but," and Harrington shakes his head, bites his lip, breathes, "Why you _lying_ to me?" 

What a _great_ fucking question.

Why the hell  _is_ Billy lying to Harrington?

He _doesn't_ have to.

Harrington is _never_ going to remember that this happened. 

" _Look_ at me," Billy says, waits until Harrington's eyes are on his, finishes, "I _never_ liked _anybody_ the way I liked you." 

That's not a lie. 

Maybe Billy doesn't like Harrington like that _anymore_ , but he _did_ , so.

It's _not_ a lie. 

And Harrington's _still_ pretty, right? 

Billy could fuck him, tonight.

He _should_.

Billy knows Harrington well enough to know that, tonight, like this, Harrington would make it good for Billy, he would moan and beg and give it up _so_ fucking sweet,  _praying_ that Billy might come back later for another round, just because the first time was _that_ fucking nice. 

_Honestly_ , Billy would  _deserve_  it, after putting up with all of this shit, and this is the way Billy has always liked Harrington best, _anyway_ , sleepy and lost and smaller than he has any real right to be. 

All Billy has to do now is _touch_ him, and Harrington's going to fall apart, let Billy take him to bed, let Billy open him up and take what he wants.

But Harrington sounds like he doesn't _believe_ Billy, at _all_ , not for a fucking _second_ , when he laughs, "Okay! Sure. _Okay_." 

Harrington stumbles his way to his bedroom door, pushes it open, and. 

And Billy reaches out, catches Harrington's arm with one hand, cups his face with the other one as he murmurs, "Slow it down, pretty boy." And he _waits_ , but. Harrington doesn't say anything back. He might already be asleep. Billy has no idea, but he still finishes, "Let me see you after school, tomorrow." 

Harrington reaches up to tug at the one curl of Billy's hair that he likes, again, when he agrees, shakily, "... _okay_?" 

"I'll buy you a milkshake."

" _Hargrove_ ," Harrington sighs, almost like he's actually _awake_ , almost like he's going to _remember_ this, almost like this _isn't_ just a lie Billy's feeding him so he'll relax and go to bed and stop trying to fucking _die_ , every few seconds. "I  _said_   _okay_." 

"Yeah?" Harrington nods, tries to walk away from Billy, into his room, so Billy tightens the grip he still has on Harrington's arm, warns him, "You  _can't_  take it back. I don't _do_ cancellations."  

" _Okay_." 

 

 

 

 

Billy is looking at Harrington, Harrington who chewed his face apart, Harrington who Billy's never seen _really_ cry, even though he  _always_  seems fucked-up enough to do it, Harrington who doesn't have any friends or family or  _anybody_  looking out for him. 

Harrington's flat on his back in bed, holding onto a cigarette he's not smoking, looking tired, and.

He's  _still_  a problem, he's still not  _Billy's_  problem, but Billy opens up  _Where The Wild Things Are_ , anyway.

" _And when he came to the place where the wild things are, they roared their terrible roars, and gnashed their terrible teeth, and rolled their terrible eyes, and showed their terrible claws, till Max said 'BE STILL!' and tamed them with the magic trick of staring into all their yellow eyes without blinking once_ ," Billy reads, trying to keep his voice down, level,  _harmless_.

It's not a scary story, not  _really_ , but Harrington's  _scared_  of monsters, so.

_Where The Wild Things Are_  was a bad choice.

Billy makes a  _lot_ of bad choices.

"Max is a  _badass_ ," Harrington slurs. " _Love_  that shit."

"Shut the  _fuck_  up."

Billy  _forgot_  the main character was named Max.

He would've resented Max for that, too, back in the day.

How the hell can one tiny little girl ruin  _everything_ , even his _favorite book_ , right?

But he doesn't feel resentful now.

He's too fucking  _tired_  to be resentful. 

He clears his throat, starts again, " _And they were frightened, and called him the most wild thing of all, and made him king of all wild things_."

And Harrington's  _not_  asleep, not  _that_  fucking fast, but he's  _something_  like it, something  _close_  to it, so Billy lifts his cigarette away so it won't burn him, or ash all over his clothes, or set the whole goddamn house on fire.

He reads, and reads, and reads, until he's saying, " _The King of all wild things was lonely, and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all_ ," and.

Billy feels like his blood is running cold, again. 

The story isn't fucking  _over_.

There's a few more pages, but Billy doesn't have to read ahead to know what happens.

He  _remembers_.

Max stops playing pretend.

Max goes home, and his mother is waiting for him, and she was mad at him when he left, but she isn't  _anymore_ , because she loves him  _that_ fucking much.

That sweet normal family shit?

_Yeah_ , that shit is  _only_  in the book so little kids won't burst into tears at the end of the story. 

In real life, you stop playing pretend, you  _think_  you're leaving the monsters in their own universe where they belong, but the monsters were  _actually_ in the same universe as you  _the entire fucking time_ , and maybe you were friends before, but now that you know their secret, they  _have_  to eat you alive, so they do, and then they  _never_  think about you again, and your parents have another kid, a  _better_  kid, and they pick up and move to  _fucking_ Indiana, and then  _they_ forget about you,  _too_.

Not that this is about Billy, because.

It's  _not_  about Billy.

It's  _not_ , but Billy would have to be a  _lot_  fucking sicker than he really is to remind Harrington that other people have parents who want to talk to them, who worry about them, who fucking  _love_  them, so. 

He closes the book, drags at Harrington's cigarette one last time, lies, " _The End_."

**Author's Note:**

> fic title from the kendrick lamar verse on jidennas _classic man_.
> 
> once again, italicised passages from the opening of mcinerneys _bright lights, big city_ (1984) but also from the entirety of sendaks classic _where the wild things are_ (1963).  
> [im on tumblr here, if you ever want to talk about Billy Hargrove, or about Anything Else, really—](http://rvstyryan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
